


Your Whispers Sound Like Home

by bbjkrss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Asexual Character, Asexuality Spectrum, Consent Issues, D/s, Insecurity, M/M, Past Abuse, Pet Play, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 121,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbjkrss/pseuds/bbjkrss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper is known for taking in "unwanted" subs that have a hard time dealing with Doms. Her current adoptee is Sherlock, a fractious, distrustful sub who is ashamed of his designation and furious at his brother for placing him under Molly's care. One day he comes across John Watson, a Dom who works in the sub trauma unit at Bart's and, amazingly, seems to be interested in crime scenes. This is fortunate, seeing as there are about to be several new ones popping up around London...</p>
<p>(Archive warnings will apply in future chapters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on several prompts from the Sherlock kink meme, including (obviously) adoptive!Molly and a Sherlock who is uncomfortable with being a sub. Sherlock's level of asexuality in this may vary a bit, but I'm still comfortable keeping him under the ace label. There will be mentions of dub/non-con events in the past, as well as drug use. I'll add warnings (as well as tags) when things appear.
> 
> This fic has grown to be so much bigger than I originally anticipated, and while that means that it will (hopefully) be tons of fun to write, that also means that it will require lots of planning so I don't let you all down. Letting you know now, updates may be slow, at least at first.
> 
> Now that all that's out of the way, I hope you enjoy the fic!

            “John?”

            His fingers tighten slightly in his sub’s hair as he glances down at her by his feet. He’s about to ask her what she means by using his name right now, but he pauses when he sees the pensive, serious look on her face.

            “Oh, I’m sorry, love.” He smoothes over the hair he’s pulled and pats the empty sofa cushion beside him. “Something wrong?”

            Sarah smiles at him and takes the seat. She doesn’t lean against him, or meet his eyes, but John doesn’t let it worry him. They tend towards distance in their scenes, and she might just be feeling the remnants of subspace. He waits for her to speak.

            “You were far away,” Sarah replies at last. The air is quiet for a moment, save for the cracking of the fire. “You have been quite a lot, lately.”

            John can’t argue with that. He’s found himself staring into space more often in the past few weeks, even more than when he’d first come back from the war. His world feels grey, like someone’s sucked all of the energy out of it, and he needs to find a way to put it back. Not that he’ll tell Sarah that, of course. He doesn’t want her to think that their relationship is just him seeking a power trip. Sarah’s got an independent streak a mile wide, true, but he’s never tried to tame it; it’s what made him fall in love with her in the first place, what keeps their relationship so playful and rewarding. Still…

            “John?” Sarah touches the back of his hand, and when his eyes refocus on her, her smile is strained. “You’re doing it again.”

            “God, I am, aren’t I?” John rubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Sarah, I don’t know what’s the matter with me. How about I go find the key and put your regular collar back on for the night?”

            Sarah doesn’t say anything for a moment, eyes downcast as she fiddles with the hem of her skirt. “…What if I didn’t want you to put it back on?”

            John pauses, halfway out of his seat. He blinks once, twice, then licks his lips and sits back down, watching Sarah carefully. “Have I hurt you?” he asks quietly, in his most serious voice.

            “No,” Sarah reassures him. “Nothing like that. It’s only…” she trails off, looking slightly frustrated, and John sighs.

            “Wait here,” he tells her, and rises from the couch to go and fetch the key off the mantelpiece. Independent streak or not, it’s ridiculous to expect her to be able to speak her mind while wearing their scene collar. He returns to his seat and pulls at the lock on her collar until it’s at the front, then inserts the key. He tries to convince himself that the familiar click doesn’t sound any louder than usual.

            The soft green leather slips easily off her neck and John sets it on the coffee table. Sarah’s face clouds briefly; it’s hard to come back from ‘space on one’s own, but John restrains himself from reaching out and stroking the expression away. If Sarah’s about to break up with him, it’s unlikely that she would appreciate the comfort. Soon enough Sarah returns to herself, sitting up a bit straighter and shaking out her hair.

            “I’m really sorry about this,” she tells him quietly. “You were a lovely Dom, John, but you need more than I can give you.”

            “I can’t decide that for myself?” It’s a futile question, because John will be damned if he doesn’t let his sub null their contract when she wants to, but god does he wish she wouldn’t. “You never said no to anything I absolutely needed, you know that. Our contract was so easy. We practically weren’t compromising at all.”

            Sarah offers a weak smile. “I know.”

            “Then why do you have to leave?”

            The silence stretches this time as they look into each other’s eyes, and John honestly doesn’t know if it’s been just a few seconds or half an hour before Sarah stands and takes a step towards the door.

            “Because,” she says, hand resting on the doorknob that will take her from the flat and out of John’s life, “as a sub, I need to look out for myself. Trying to please you when I’m not enough isn’t good for either of us. And… if leaving you gives you the chance to find someone who complements you better, maybe I can pretend that it’s still me pleasing you, too.”

            The door clicks shut behind her, but John does not move as he listens to her footsteps descend the stairs. He does not move as he hears her say goodbye to Mrs Hudson, or when the knocker on the front door rattles against the wood. He does not move for several minutes afterwards as the silence of the flat settles into his bones. When at last he does move, it is to face the thin band of leather sitting on the coffee table and watch, chin rested on his laced fingers, as the shadows from the fire dance over its surface until his vision is full of shades of forest green.

 -

            The next day, John gives Sarah his two week notice and makes a call to Stamford. He still works at Bart’s; maybe there’ll be a position open for a traumatised ex-army doctor who needs something more than what a sub has to offer.

 

* * *

 

            He’s cold.

            Sherlock shifts yet again on the pavement, trying to relieve the aching in his knees. He’ll have to stand up soon- his arm is going numb again- but he’s not sure if his legs will be able to take it. Mistress has left him his coat, but it’s not helping much. There’s a bit of wind, and he hasn’t got his scarf. Mistress didn’t want him to have too much comfort. Where is Mistress? She said she’d come for him, but it’s past the hour. Has she forgotten? She couldn’t have- Mycroft wouldn’t have let her- but then why is she late?

            He tugs half-heartedly at the cuff that links him to the hospital gate. The metal holds, obviously, digging into the skin of his wrist and clanking against the bars, and suddenly he feels a stinging sensation in his nose and throat. No. No reason to cry, Mistress wouldn’t like it, except he hurts all over and the ground is cold and no matter how long he sits in one place it never gets warm and oh _god_ he has to stand up now or he’s going to lose his arm. He staggers to his feet, clutching at the bars for support.

            Footsteps. He whips his head around, plea on his lips- except it’s not Mistress. Just a couple, an average couple, two women, one leading the other on a leash. The submissive giggles as they walk past, and his throat tightens even more. She’s left him, of course she has, left him to be humiliated here for who knows how long. He should have known better, _should have_ , shouldn’t have said anything, but he can’t help it, can’t help that he sees so many things, and he’s a bad sub, and he’s sorry, and he’d tell her that if she’d only just-

            “Pet?”

            “Mistress!” He turns back around and there she is, hair pulled up and lipstick on- and has she been crying? Why has she been crying? Mistress should never be upset- but she’s _here_ , now, and he drops to his knees in relief, pressing his head against her leg. “I missed you.”

            “I missed you too, pet.” Mistress’ hand strokes his hair gently and he knows that she loves him, won’t leave him behind. “How are you feeling?”

            He wants to say _fine_ , doesn’t want to worry her any more than she already is, but Mistress has made it very clear that he is to tell the truth at all times. He rattles the cuff again, wincing at the pins and needles feeling. “My arm hurts.”

            Mistress goes to check it and _tsks_ when she sees his skin. “You mustn’t pull at it, pet,” she reminds him gently as she reaches into her pocket for the key. “I don’t want you to hurt.”

            He nods, waiting for the sound of the key in the lock, the reward of freedom, but Mistress is touching his chin and forcing him to look up at her.

            “Do you know what you did wrong?” she asks, and he remembers. The lesson.

            “I disrespected you,” he says obediently. At her silence, he bites his lip and continues. “I embarrassed you in front of your colleagues, and I need to learn to think before I speak.”

            “And have you learned your lesson?” Her eyes are stern, despite their redness. He so desperately wants to make her feel better.

            “Yes, Mistress,” he says, and bows his head. “I’m sorry.”

            Mistress is quiet for a moment. He wants to look at her face, figure out what she’s thinking, but he can’t move, not yet. He stays perfectly still as Mistress traces the lines of his collar with a slim finger, as her finger tucks under, briefly, at the base of his throat. She sighs.

            “Good pet,” she whispers, and unlocks the cuff. Sherlock stands, cradles his sore wrist close to his chest, and breathes.

            There are tears on his face.

            Suddenly, a hot flush blooms beneath his skin and he wipes at them furiously. Molly raises her hand, meaning to touch him, but he flinches away and stalks off towards home.

 -

            His neck is burning before they even reach the flat.

            “I want it off. Now,” he demands the moment he’s over the threshold. Molly sighs as she hangs her coat on the hook beside the door.

            “Manners, pet,” she reminds him, but her fingers fiddle with the buckle all the same and then it’s off, he’s free, and he chucks it into a corner before storming through to his closet. He knows what Molly looks like in the other room- lips tight, cheeks pink, hands on her hips; his insolence rubs the Domme side of her the wrong way, but her compassion for him prevents her from punishing him the way she ought. Idly, he wonders if he’ll ever push her far enough past the boundaries of their informal agreement that she’ll strike him. He doubts it, and the sudden apathy is enough to make him flop down onto his bed, shoes and all.

            “Pet, please don’t sulk,” Molly calls from the kitchen- making an early dinner, which Sherlock will refuse to eat. “It’s not attractive.”

            _Bugger attractive_ , Sherlock thinks, but he only curls himself into a tighter ball among the mess of sheets on the small bed. Of course his silence is the wrong response, and Molly appears in the doorway fifteen seconds later.

            “You haven’t even taken off your coat.” She kneels beside him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. Sherlock flinches away. “Pet…”

            “Don’t call me that,” Sherlock snaps at her. “We’re no longer at the hospital.”

            Molly’s face creases, but she’s not surprised. She’s heard this before.

            “All right,” she murmurs, manoeuvring him to slide the coat down his arms. “But you know I only call you that because I care about you?”

            Sherlock doesn’t reply, choosing instead to roll over and face the wall. It’s an obvious dismissal, but of course Molly doesn’t take the hint. Her clothes rustle as she settles herself and then her hands begin to rub across Sherlock’s back as if he’s some giant cat she’s trying to tame. He’s not going to fall for it, of course.

            “I saw Dr Watson again today.” Molly somehow manages to make her remark sound like a suggestion. Sherlock doesn’t want to talk about Dr Watson, however, so he shrugs and casts his eye yet again over the almost offensively cheerful baby-blue wallpaper. (Molly has no age play fantasies that he is aware of; therefore her colour choice is ridiculous and her ability to decorate her own home must be revoked.)

            “He asked about you,” Molly continues. “Not by name, of course, he doesn’t know your name, only that you’re mine and that you’re always out by the gate- oh.” Her hands pause in their ministrations and Sherlock sighs, adjusting himself on the bed.

            “It’s all right, Molly. You’re my Mistress, you’re allowed to humiliate me.”

            Molly doesn’t resume the conversation at first, but her touch shifts into something like a massage and despite himself, Sherlock feels his muscles begin to relax. He lets out a soft noise, the closest approximation he has to a purr, and finally tilts his neck towards her in acceptance. A moment later a fingertip brushes along his vertebrae and he shivers.

            “You’ve met him before, haven’t you, pet?” Mistress asks. There’s something about her inflection that makes Sherlock curious, but it’s too much effort to deduce at the moment. He shrugs.

            “Verbal answer, please.”

            “I’ve never spoken to him, Mistress,” he replies. His words are slightly slurred, but Mistress pets his hair anyway and he leans into the pleasure as his eyes flutter closed. “I want to, though.”

            “Really?” Mistress sounds pleased. He loves it when Mistress is pleased. “Why?”

            “He’s interesting,” Sherlock murmurs. “I need to ask him-” He yawns. “Need to ask…”

            “What is it, pet?” Mistress’ hands have slowed, but Sherlock is too far under to demand a heavier touch. “What do you want to know?”

            Sherlock pauses. What was it that he wanted to ask? Dr John Watson, Dominant, eminently respected in the sub trauma unit, tan fading from his hands but absent from his wrists, dirty blonde hair just a bit too long…

            “His tan,” he says at last, dredging each word up through the molasses of his mind. “Wanted to know. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

            Mistress’ hands stop. She’s quiet for a moment, then leans down and presses a soft kiss to the hair above Sherlock’s ear. “Good boy,” she whispers. “Go to sleep now. I’ll wake you for dinner.”

            There’s a note of something in her voice- disappointment? Is she disappointed in him? Sherlock sits up, fighting against the arm that tries to lay him back down, and studies Mistress’ face; she smiles at him (forced), and slides a hand across his curls until she’s cupping his jaw. Her shoulders are slumped but she’s not trying to reassure him of anything. Comforting herself? Upset, rather than disappointed, then. It must have something to do with him (he’s not someone people go to for comfort), but he doesn’t know what he’s said to hurt her this time. They were only talking about the doctor.

            “Don’t worry about it, pet,” Mistress says quietly. She lets go of his face and stands. Sherlock sinks back down onto his elbows and watches as she touches the doorknob, pauses, then turns back to place something on his bookshelf with a soft clink.

            “Put it back on when you like,” she says, and pulls his door shut. Sherlock settles back down onto his blankets in the dark and begins to think.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I'm really sorry that it took so long to get this up. School's been awful with essays lately, so fanfic has been taking a back seat. I didn't get quite as far forward as I wanted to in this chapter, but I had quite a lot of fun developing Lestrade, so I hope it's a fair trade. John will show up again next chapter, I promise!
> 
> The relationship between Sherlock and Lestrade is a little bit different than it is in-show, but I think that it's reasonable, considering the universe. If you're confused by anything, ask and I'll explain as best I can without giving spoilers. :P I hope you all enjoy the chapter!

            “Pet?”

            Molly’s voice echoes once more off of the walls of his boredom. Sherlock would prefer to ignore her (not true- he’d rather be in the lab, but for her usual sentimental reasons she’s instructed him to stay by her side today), but she’s already chided him twice for retreating into his mind palace and he’d rather not make it a third. Being punished two days in a row would be beyond humiliating, and might even result in a visit from Mycroft. Besides, it might be time to go at last. “Yes, Mistress?”

            “You can take these samples now.”

            Of course he couldn’t be so lucky. Sherlock heaves himself up off the stool with a sigh and shuffles around to where Molly’s standing, absorbed in her latest autopsy. It’s a cancer patient this time: mind-numbingly dull. He takes the samples from Molly and turns to place them in the freezer, then pauses as he realizes what he’s holding.

            “You’ve taken twice as many as you need,” he says, puzzled. “Why?”

            Molly gives him _the look_ , but says nothing, since they’re alone in the morgue. “The extras are for you, pet, for being so patient today. You can do whatever you like with them.”

            Sherlock refrains from pointing out that there’s not actually that much he can do with a few ounces of liver, cancerous status notwithstanding, and instead forces a smile. “Thank you. May I go and study them in the lab?”

            Molly sighs but doesn’t look up from the chest cavity she’s once again buried wrist-deep in. “No, pet. You’re not recovered from yesterday.”

            “Oh, please.” Sherlock holds up his bandaged wrist, his tone sharp with frustration. “This? It’s fine, Molly, you know I’ve had worse.”

            “It’s not fine,” Molly says. A line has appeared between her eyebrows. He can’t see her hands at the moment, but Sherlock imagines that the knuckles are white beneath her gloves. He’s overstepped. “It’s never fine, the way you talk about yourself like-” A sharp jangling noise interrupts her: her mobile phone.

            “Shall I get that?” Sherlock asks quickly, anxious to put an end to the conversation before it starts. At Molly’s wordless nod he strides over to the door and retrieves the phone from her coat pocket.

            He hates it when Molly gets like this, indignant on his behalf, intent on reminding him of the choices he’s made. It _doesn’t matter._ He’s _fine_ , he-

            _Miss Hooper, we’ve just got a crime scene my team could use a second opinion on. Could I borrow Sherlock? Shouldn’t take long, it’s at London Hospital. GL_

            Sherlock glances over at Molly; even from here he can see the tension in her shoulders, hunched almost to around her ears. The motions of her arms are jerky- she’s (poorly) containing her anger, but the mood won’t be leaving for a while. It never does, when it has to do with him.

            “Well, pet?” Molly calls without turning around. “Who is it?”

            The decision takes less than half a second to make.

            “No one important,” he replies. _Of course! I’ll send him right along. Molly x_ “Just one of those spam messages the phone company sends out now and again. Shall I delete it?”

            “Yes, pet, thank you.” She’s starting to put emphasis on his title now, to highlight the fact that he’s not using hers. Not a particularly clever tactic, but an invaluable insight to her mental state. He snaps the phone shut and places it back into its pocket. He knows exactly how to play this.

            “…Mistress?” he asks, injecting a dose of trepidation into his voice as he ducks his head slightly. The effect is instantaneous: Molly turns around, her eyes softened and hopeful.

            “What’s the matter, pet?” she asks. The gentleness of her voice is expected, but his reaction to it is not; Sherlock has to thrust his hands into his trouser pockets so she cannot see him digging his nails into his palms. He cannot fall into ‘space, not now.

            “I’m… sorry I offended you,” he says haltingly. He must seem sincere, but not so upset as to require comfort. (He doesn’t worry about seeming suspicious; Molly yearns for his willing submission, desperate for a sign that her “treatment” is working. She’ll cling to any sign of progress, no matter how unlikely.) “I have no excuse for my actions. You’d be within your rights to beat me, if you wished.” It takes some self-control not to wince at his clumsy wording- of course she knows her rights- but perhaps a touch of his usual self is for the best. All traces of strain have softened from Molly’s face and she glances down at her gloves, probably gauging if it’s worth it to go and comfort him without washing her hands first.

            “I’m not angry with you,” she starts, but quickly trails off as Sherlock flinches and braces himself against the urge to present his neck. As far as he can tell, she’s not actively trying to send him under- she’s never done it at work before- so why is his mind shutting down now?

            He clamps down on the thoughts and breathes deeply, mentally reciting the respiratory process until the threat of subspace is gone. “May I go and compose myself? I promise, I won’t be long.”

            Molly studies him quietly for a moment, then nods. “Come back soon,” she says. There’s barely a hint of command in the phrase, but Sherlock can feel his brain accepting it, writing it into his plan as if it’s an essential part of strategy. He grits his teeth- he ought to have more control than that- but says nothing as he turns, grabs his coat, and leaves the morgue.

 -

            The minute Sherlock leaves hospital grounds, he ducks into an alley and removes his collar. Objectively, there’s no point; he won’t be stopped for being out without his Domme, and the officers he’s likely to interact with from Lestrade’s team know his role anyway, but he can’t deny the relief he feels when the leather slips off his neck. He shoves it unceremoniously into a pocket of his coat and then steps out to search for a taxi. The crime scene isn’t too far; London Hospital is less than twenty minutes away from Bart’s if traffic’s good. A free taxi is easy to find and Sherlock slides in, just as his own mobile beeps with fresh information from Lestrade.

            _Victim’s a Dom, early thirties. Hospital worker found him not too long ago, going out back for a cigarette break. Covered in knife wounds but they’ve all been cleaned. Might be too early to say, but I think it’s our Dom killer again._ Before Sherlock can formulate a reply, another message comes in. _Everything alright with you and Molly? Been a while since I checked in on you._

            Sherlock scowls at his phone. _That is absolutely none of your business._

            _It is when she’s what keeps you from using. At least tell me you’re getting on alright?_

            Sherlock’s fingers hover over the keys, indecisive. He refreshes the screen several times, thumb millimetres above the ‘N’, then the ‘F’, then the ‘Y’; at last he simply turns off the device and huddles down inside his coat to glare at London as it passes by.

-

            Lestrade is waiting for him as he exits the taxi, so agitated he’s practically bouncing from foot to foot. Sherlock bypasses him completely and heads toward the police tape, beyond which he can now make out the body. Lying on its side, not positioned carefully like the others, what-

            “Hello, freak.”

            There’s no explicit command, but Sherlock’s legs freeze in place regardless. Sally steps into view a moment later, head held high, and Sherlock huffs in impatience. “Sergeant Donovan, I do actually have permission to be here, so if you could-”

            “From your Domme?” Sally crosses her arms and leans backwards, the perfect picture of indifference. “I don’t see her collar.”

            “From Lestrade,” Sherlock snaps. Being around Sally for any length of time makes his skin crawl, but he’s already on edge to get back to Molly and Sally’s interference is rubbing him very much the wrong way. “Are we done?”

            Sally stares him down for another ten seconds, then lifts the police tape. It’s blatant manipulation to get him to lower his head, and Sherlock’s about to call her on it when Lestrade shouts from beside the body.

            “Oi! I haven’t got all day, you two! Donovan, leave it!”

            Sally’s cheek twitches but she drops the tape and stalks off, leaving Sherlock to duck under it himself and go join Lestrade.

            “Thank you,” he murmurs, taking the proffered latex gloves and crouching down beside the DI.

            “No problem.” Lestrade gestures at the body. “So, what d’you think?”

            The body is dressed- that detail stands out more than any other. All of the other Doms had been left naked, in various humiliating positions, obviously meant to look like abused and molested subs. If the knife wounds hadn’t been cleaned so thoroughly, Sherlock would have been concerned about the state of Lestrade’s faculties. He takes a closer look at the positioning. Right side, curled up in loose foetal position, meant to look like a fall, but the hands are tucked under the chin, too precise to be an accident.

            “His murderer was someone close to him,” he tells Lestrade as he takes a forearm to examine the wounds. “They cared too much about what he looked like in death, willing to give themselves away by the way they cleaned the body.”

            “But they haven’t given anything away,” Lestrade objects. “Clean body or no, we still can’t figure out who they are.”

            “Friends and sexual partners of the deceased are often good places to start,” Sherlock replies absently. The scratches are not deep, suggesting a consensual bloodplay scene, but up along the neck…

            “None of the others have given us any leads,” Lestrade reminds him, though he dutifully calls over a younger officer who’s holding several evidence bags. “What makes you think this one’ll be different?”

            There. Right over the jugular- an irregular cut, deeper than the others, with bruising beneath. The familiar feeling of triumph bubbles up in his veins and sets his mind speeding through various scenarios. “Because this wasn’t a murder, it was a mistake.” He turns to the officer. “Did you find any identification on him?”

            “Y-yes, sir,” the sub stammers. “We found his wallet. It still has his ID in it.”

            Molly would call his grin indecent, but Sherlock can’t find it in himself to care. “Good. What’s his name? Run it through the databases, see if he has a registered partner. I’ll ask around.” He strips off the gloves and is about to stand when Lestrade grabs his arm.

            “What d’you mean, mistake?” he asks, puzzled. “The bloke just got sliced up by accident?”

            Sherlock rolls his eyes. “No, the lacerations are intentional. It was during play, just like all the others. But look here-” he points at the neck wound. “They were likely tracing the blade over the skin for sensation, but then were startled by something. Their hand slipped, dug in too far, and…” He flicks his hand in a dismissive gesture. Lestrade doesn’t seem convinced, though, so Sherlock removes his lens from his coat pocket and offers it.

            “Check the wounds,” he says. “You’ll notice that they’re not straight. Tiny, jagged deviations, so a tremor, but not a highly noticeable one. It could have been exacerbated by some emotional or physical stimuli.” He wonders, at times, how he can be so patient towards Lestrade, leading him through his deductions rather than just rattling them off and disappearing with a swish of coat and scarf. Maybe it’s because they’re both subs in a heavily Dominant profession, or because of what they shared when- _Shut up._ Sherlock takes the memory and shoves it back into its (dark, remote) drawer. His mind is running too freely today, even with the Work to distract him. Maybe he could convince Molly to stroke his hair when they get home. Some of his desire must show on his face, as the sub officer gives him an inquiring look; he shoots back with a glare and is only mildly gratified as the man hunches his shoulders and flees.

            “What I don’t get is why they wouldn’t report it,” Lestrade says conversationally as he studies the marks, oblivious to the exchange. “If they can prove that it was an honest mistake, they won’t get put away for very long. This way, we’ve got to treat it like homicide.”

            “Perhaps there was something incriminating at the flat,” Sherlock says sharply. His patience is wearing thin, and Molly’s outstanding order is making his skin itch. “Which is why it’s important that you _run the name_ as soon as possible in order to…” He trails off, a cold shiver of dread making its way down his back.

            His mobile is ringing.

            Lestrade notices the noise a moment later and looks over at him, eyebrows furrowed.

            “Molly,” Sherlock murmurs reluctantly. Lestrade’s face crumples into a mix of exasperation and empathetic distress.

            “Sherlock, you’ve got to stop doing this,” he orders. It holds little power, coming from a sub, but Sherlock feels the twinge anyway. (Briefly, perversely, he wonders if Lestrade would consider Domming him. Mycroft would throw a fit if he found out- all the more reason to suggest it.) “I’m serious. I’ll start calling her if I think it’ll help. That was our agreement.”

            “It was.” Sherlock stands just as the mobile stops ringing. It starts up again, but he makes no move to answer it. “I… don’t know when she’ll let me come back to help you.”

            “If she’s a good Domme, not for ages.” Lestrade lets out a sigh and stands as well, holding out the lens for Sherlock to take. “I appreciate your help, Sherlock, I really do, but you’ve got to follow protocol. If you’re doing this because she’s treating you badly, tell me, and I’ll help you. But if you’re just screwing around for the hell of it…” He shrugs and sighs again, and suddenly looks _tired._ Sherlock wonders what he does to comfort himself when he goes home, with no Dom to care for him. “You’ve got to find some way to deal with it. We care about you, all right?”

            Sherlock nods silently. Lestrade watches him for a moment more, then leans in to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. It’s not enough, not really, but Sherlock appreciates the gesture and inclines his head the smallest bit. Lestrade smiles.

            “I’ll text you if anything else turns up,” he promises. “Now get moving.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I am really sorry that this took three weeks to get up. College has been hectic preparing for finals, and the story is being a little stubborn. I'm posting this technically before the chapter is done- it's not quite where I want it- but I'm hoping that getting this stress off my plate and getting some more time to plan will help make the next chapter even better for you all.
> 
> Please tell me if you're confused by anything- hopefully you'll understand more as the story goes on, but I want to make sure I don't leave anything out.
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy this one! It was a lot of fun to write.

            “I’m disappointed in you.”

            Sherlock, braced for a much more violent outburst, is caught off-balance for a moment. “You’re disappointed.”

            “Oh, I’m angry as well,” Molly replies. Her voice is tightly controlled, her fingertips digging into her hips as her legs shift into a powerful stance. It lowers her height by an inch or so, but her Dominant side is out in full force and Sherlock can already feel the pressure to kneel. “I’m angry that you manipulated me, and that you lied about where you were going. For a minute I thought that you’d run away again.” Molly pauses to let that sink in and curdle Sherlock’s stomach before she continues. “You weren’t trying to, were you, pet?”

            Sherlock hangs his head. His limbs are heavy and trembling and he can’t muster the energy to fight anymore. “No, Mistress. I was with Lestrade.”

            “I see.” Silence. “Give me your collar.”

            “What?” Adrenaline floods Sherlock’s veins and he plunges a hand into his pocket to clutch at the ring of leather. “Why?”

            “Well,” Molly continues in a matter-of-fact voice, “it doesn’t seem terribly important to you. You’re always trying to get rid of it.”

            “No, Mistress, please.” The thought of giving up his collar, even for a moment, is enough to make Sherlock’s throat tighten and his palms grow wet with fear. He’s being ridiculous; hasn’t he wanted freedom from the moment Lestrade and Mycroft dragged him, strung out and defiant, to Molly’s door? But the thought of being alone again, sitting in his empty flat, full of nothing but _silence_ until he filled it with panting, tears, the sounds of pain; the looks of disappointment Lestrade would give him the morning, day, week after; the nights he would spend curled up on the floor, his own fingers clutching at his neck in a parody of comfort until his disgust overwhelmed him and he tore at his own skin, scratching dark, angry lines down his arms, his torso, his legs until his entire body was aflame, the pain just as suffocating and all-consuming as it ought to be, until he understood that comfort was never coming, never would, but that didn’t matter because he could conquer this (but then what would he do to drown out the powder calling his name?)… Sherlock can’t breathe. “Please-”

            “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Molly looks just as tired as Lestrade, now, but there is still power in her voice as she holds out her hand. “But I can’t keep watching you throw my protection away. My collar, please.”

            Sherlock’s fingers are cold, numb. He can barely feel it as Molly removes his hand from his pocket and pries his fingers one by one from the leather.

            “I need to figure out where to go from here,” Molly says. The words are coming from far away, but the feeling Sherlock gets this time is one of emptiness, a cavern that is slowly filling with water until there is nowhere left for him to go. “I know you need care, so I’m going to leave you here for an hour- just an hour- and then James is going to take you home. We’ll decide then.”

            Sherlock’s cheeks are hot and he swallows harshly as he nods. Hadn’t he been wondering only yesterday how far he could push Molly? He lets her take him by the arm and lead him through the hallways until they reach the front entrance. They push through the double doors, and then the cold night air is like a blow to his face.

            “I’ll leave you your scarf,” Molly says. She’s toneless now, her words more like text that runs in black and white at the bottom of his vision. “Wrist.”

            Wordlessly Sherlock obeys. The back of his mind, the part of him that is still conscious and exultant by this victory, reminds him that he doesn’t have to- he’s all but dismissed at this point- but his submissive side is convinced that maybe, somehow, if he’s good, Mistress will change her mind, take him back. He can’t be alone, not now.

            The bitter touch of metal greets his left hand (the uninjured one- she’s still being kind) and he’s startled enough by the sensation plus the fact that it’s positioned lower than usual that he finds his mind filtering back slightly.

            “You can sit if you like this time,” Molly tells him. She takes a step back from the gate, one hand in her pocket- probably stroking his collar. Something heavy pulls at his chest but he’s lucid enough now to cut it off, harden himself away from it. “James will be by in a few minutes to check on you. Please, just…” She hesitates, and suddenly her expression looks much more sub-like than anything he’s ever seen on her before. “Think about how much you want this, Sherlock. I know I promised your brother I’d take care of you, but… I can’t if you don’t want to be helped.”

            She looks like she wants to say more, but instead bites her lip and turns away. Sherlock watches her retreating back silently until she disappears, then sinks down, back pressed against the bars, to sit heavily on the cold pavement. For a minute or so he watches the road- he wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft put in an appearance to scold him for ruining his plans yet _again_ \- but by the time James arrives to check his colour and pulse, he understands. Molly no longer wants him, and Mycroft isn’t going to fix it this time. He’s thoroughly fouled up his own life and it’s time to accept the consequences.

            If he slumps further against his bonds, James doesn’t find anything suspicious about it. He pats Sherlock’s shoulder sympathetically, murmurs something about making another round of the hospital, and heads off again. The evening murmur of London fills Sherlock’s ears and he retreats into his mind palace. He constructs a little copy of his old flat (it would probably still be available if he went back- the landlord owes him a favour), and imagines himself sitting there, surrounded by old ratty furniture and nothing but silence. He feels cold, a familiar tension settling in his shoulders, but it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. He can do it again.

* * *

            It’s only fifteen minutes past the end of his shift before John can’t take the pain in his leg anymore. Sighing, he rubs at it and contemplates the three steps across his office it’ll take to get his coat. (He tries not to think about the many more it will take to get outside, walk to the Tube, get home…)

            He doesn’t understand why he feels so disappointed. Molly hadn’t even told him what she wanted him to come down to the morgue _for_ , but when he’d arrived only for her to apologize and send him back upstairs because “plans had changed,” he felt like he’d missed out on something.

            Catching her sub, for one. John would of course never infringe upon another Dom’s territory, but he can’t deny the man is beautiful and it would have been nice to see him, or maybe even talk to him. He’s probably brilliant, since Molly lets him help out in the lab. What was his name, again?

            John grimaces- his leg won’t leave him alone. Well, it’s not like he was getting much done anyway. He forces himself upright and shuffles over to his coat, but pauses with one arm halfway through the sleeve. The loud chatter of voices filters in from the hallway and he remembers- shift change. He closes his eyes, breathes, then finishes pulling his coat on and sets a hand on the knob. _Relax._

            Somehow he manages to get out of the hospital without speaking to anyone and without succumbing too badly to the limp. By the time he pushes the outside doors open, however, the pain is enough that he has to lean against the wall and just breathe for a minute. The cane is gone; he’d gotten rid of it when he met Sarah because it made him look old, and after a week of knowing her he hadn’t needed it anyway. Even thinking about her had made him feel so energized… Now, however, he wishes he’d at least tucked it away into some closet somewhere.

            It’s not so much that he’s _lonely_ , he amends fiercely to himself. He’s not gone that soppy yet. But to have handfuls of subs pass by him every day- some in deplorable health- and to pour so much of his energy into them with no chance of it being returned… Oh, the knowledge that he’s helping them is usually enough, he _is_ a doctor after all, but some days he just… needs something more.

            Something clanks against the fence off to his left and his eyes snap open, senses alert. There’s nothing to worry about, really- he’s on hospital property in the middle of London- but old habits die hard. He can’t see anyone at first, but as his eyes scan lower, he notices a person-shaped lump huddling by the gate. Immediately his shoulders relax from their squared position. It’s just Molly’s sub.

            He watches for a moment from the relative safety of the entrance (he can step back and pretend he’s just come outside if he has to), but the man doesn’t look his way; even when another gust of wind makes John shiver and pull his coat tighter around himself, the only part of him that moves is his curls. It’s then that John suddenly feels a twinge of concern. Molly’s shift has been over for a while now, so why is her sub still here?

            He takes a few steps forward. “Hello?”

            The sub doesn’t respond at first. His eyes are glazed and he’s staring into the middle distance, though there’s an unconscious twitch of his face at John’s words. Is he in ‘space? John steps closer until he’s only a few feet away; he would crouch, but he doesn’t think his leg could take that right now. “Are you all right?”

            He only gets another twitch in response and he’s about to go look for help when at last the sub turns his head and looks at him. His eyes are marginally more alert, and scanning over him (albeit slowly) as if he’s reading a book.

            “Is Molly around?” John tries again. “You shouldn’t be out here when it’s this cold.”

            The sub shrugs, rattling his cuff against the gate once more. John glances at it, and his eyes widen; before he can remind himself what a _colossally_ bad idea it is, he’s at the man’s side, inspecting his bare fingers for colour and range of motion.

            “What’re you doing? Stop it.” The sub tries to pull his arm away and John lets go, but not before he notices a shiver that has nothing to do with cold pass through the lean frame. “I’m fine. James just checked me a few minutes ago.”

            “Sorry.” John takes a step backwards and tucks his hands firmly into his armpits as a conciliatory gesture. (It is also really damn cold.) “That was terribly unprofessional of me. But just so I know, will she be coming to get you soon? You’re dropping, and it’s miserable out.”

            “I told you, I’m fine.” The sub’s voice has a bit of bite to it now as he resettles himself against the gate. Clearly he expects John to leave, but John can’t in good conscience leave a sub alone like this for any length of time, so he gingerly takes hold of his leg and eases himself down to sit a few feet away from the sub.

            “Sherlock.”

            “Hm?”

            “That’s my name.” The sub- Sherlock- tugs off his scarf with his free hand and wraps it around the other and John feels a bit of tension drain from his body. “You obviously intend to have a conversation with me, and I would rather you use my proper name than whatever ridiculous appellation you’ve made up in that tiny little brain of yours.”

            John bristles slightly at the insult, but tries to keep in mind that the poor man’s likely been in subdrop for at least an hour or two, judging by his reaction to touch. He offers a polite smile and keeps his tone pleasant. “Nice to meet you, Sherlock. I’m Doctor Watson.”

            Sherlock seems momentarily surprised- probably expected his demeanour to scare John off- but the expression quickly disappears and he sits up a bit straighter. “Yes, I knew who you were,” he says. “Molly’s told me your name.” He pauses, considering something, but before John can ask why he’s referred to his Mistress by name he continues on, a bit hurriedly. “I suppose I ought to apologise for the inconvenience this afternoon. It wasn’t that I was unwilling to meet you, you understand, but a case caught my attention and I couldn’t turn it down.”

            “A case?” The rest of his words don’t catch up until a moment later. “Hang on, who said anything about us meeting?”

            Sherlock sighs heavily, but there’s a touch of theatricality to the exasperation. “Molly’s been talking about you with greater frequency lately. Today she insisted on my presence in the morgue, even though she normally lets me experiment in the lab. Then here you come, late, but only just so. Not long enough for an extra patient. You were intending to do paperwork, but something was distracting you, or else you’d have stayed longer. You had plans that were cancelled last-minute. My fault. I’m currently in the middle of an on-going serial killer investigation, and when I was asked to come and visit a new crime scene I considered it a much better use of my time than sitting around in the morgue, so I left. Hence my subsequent punishment and my apology.”

            John can only stare. “That’s… that’s very impressive.”

            Sherlock tilts his head, looking pleased but a bit wary, as if he thinks that John is taking the piss. “Really?”

            “Absolutely.” John’s never had someone do that before- lay out his actions in such a logical order that his thoughts became obvious. He knows he should probably be concerned, at the very least. Maybe even defensive, because his thoughts are his own and he doesn’t particularly want anyone else knowing what they are. Yet all he can feel is a burgeoning curiosity, despite the serial killer talk, and he finds himself sidling closer to Sherlock. “Is there… anything else you can figure out about me?”

            A glint that John can only label as mischievous sparks in Sherlock’s eye, and he holds out his free hand. “Give me your phone.”

            John frowns as he reaches into his pocket. “Isn’t it cheating if you read my texts?”

            “Don’t have to.” Sherlock flips the phone over a few times, briefly inspects the engraving on the back, peers at something John can’t make out in the darkness, and only then turns the phone on to glance at the model information.

            “By the way, I wanted to ask you,” he remarks as he reads, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

            “What?” The tension that had all but left is back. Sherlock turns to look at him and his curious expression dissolves into a grimace.

            “Apologies again, Doctor. I should have known from the limp.” He offers the phone and John takes it back, perhaps a little too brusquely. “It’s common knowledge that you were in the army. When I saw the tan on your hands, but not your wrists, I couldn’t decide where you’d been. Do you…” He hesitates, the drop leeching at his confidence. “Would you still like to hear the deduction, or shall I…?”

            John clears his throat. “No, it’s fine. I’m sorry. I was in Afghanistan, I just wasn’t expecting you to bring it up.” He cracks a tight smile. “Guess that’s what I get for talking to a detective, isn’t it?”

            Sherlock doesn’t seem particularly reassured. “Perhaps I shouldn’t mention your brother, either?”

            “Brother?” John is genuinely confused before he remembers the engraving on the back of his phone. He’s about to correct Sherlock, but then an idea comes to him and he leans backwards, trying to keep a straight face. “Oh, go on, then.”

            “He’s… a bit of a drinker,” Sherlock says. “You can see it from the scuff marks on the power connections. You dislike his drinking- judging by your call history, you don’t talk often. If you don’t like each other, why’s he given you his phone? He’s walked out on his Domme. The engraving on the back, “to Harry, from Clara.” He’s angry with her, otherwise he’d have kept it. Most subs do. They want something to remember their partner by. Only…” Sherlock frowns. “Why would he give you a present from his old Domme? You’re his brother, and a Dom yourself. Wouldn’t you be protective of him, not want to see anything that reminds you of someone who’s hurt him?”

            The joke’s gone on long enough; John can see that the deductions have taxed Sherlock of what little remaining energy he had (though he seems so much more relaxed now than when John first saw him that the unfed Dom part of his brain preens in satisfaction).

            “Harry’s a Domme, too,” he explains, revelling in the surprise on Sherlock’s face. “And I know _she_ can take care of herself, so I honestly don’t care if she wants to give me her old Domme’s phone. It’s a good model, anyhow.”

            “Your _sister._ ” Sherlock thumps his head back against the bars, making them rattle. “There’s always something.”

            “Sherlock?”

            Both of them look up; James is trotting towards them, one hand holding up the ill-fitting uniform trousers of the hospital. “Is Doctor Watson bothering you, Sherlock?”

            “No, no.” Sherlock waves away the concern as James reaches his side and takes a key out of his pocket. “He was fine company. Is it time to go already?”

            “Yep, you’re all done for today.” James smiles at the scarf on Sherlock’s hand and unwraps it so he can unlock the cuffs. “You ready to go?”

            Sherlock hesitates. James is immediately attentive and John tenses halfway through standing up, hoping that he isn’t about to be accused of anything. Really, he doesn’t know how Sherlock feels about him at all. He’s been taking Sherlock’s cues to mean that he’s comfortable around John, but he could just be playing polite, since he’s got nowhere to go if John gets offended. He can try to explain things if it comes to that, but who are they going to believe? The Dom, or the sub who’s in danger of being taken advantage of?

            “Actually, James,” Sherlock says slowly, “I was thinking I’d let Doctor Watson walk me home.”

            John’s eyes widen. “Me?” He looks up at James. “Is that- I mean, is Molly going to be okay with-”

            “It’s fine.” James smiles and offers Sherlock a hand to help him stand up. “Molly trusts you. Just make sure this one gets back to her in one piece.” He checks Sherlock’s wrist briefly, then pats him on the shoulder and gently pushes him in John’s direction. “Night, lads.”

            John’s about to protest (at Sherlock’s treatment, not the informality- he’s really not _that_ picky and besides, James slides into whatever conventions suit him, regardless of who he’s talking to); surely Sherlock doesn’t appreciate being manhandled like this. But then he notices the glazed-over eyes and the way that Sherlock’s feet scuff slightly over the pavement, and he steps forward so that he’s only a foot or so away in case he stumbles. “Do you want me to get a cab for you?”

            “I can still walk,” Sherlock grumbles indignantly, and pushes John aside as he sets off down the street. John throws an apologetic look over his shoulder at James and then hurries after him.

            If his leg moves more smoothly than before, it doesn’t occur to him to wonder why.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I am terribly sorry that this took as long as it did. School got the best of me. I'm also sorry that the story doesn't move quite as far ahead as I would have liked, but I was satisfied with this and wanted to give you some new material.
> 
> NOTE: This scene shifted direction several times during the writing, and I'm still not sure if it's perfect. I may alter it slightly: if I do this, I will put a note in my profile and in these notes, but assume that it will stay the same for now.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!

            Sherlock already regrets asking Doctor Watson to take him home. He’s having a hard time controlling his limbs from the mix of cold and subdrop, and the resulting stumbling gait, a far cry from his usual fluid stride, is not very attractive. In fact, it’s downright shameful, and what must Doctor Watson think of him, unable to handle a punishment he’s had so many times before? He’s a disgrace to Mistress and a poor excuse for a sub besides. Hardly enticing, or anything close to what a Dom would consider a good catch.

            He clenches his hands inside his pockets to stop their trembling. He can’t afford to be afraid, not when there’s so much on the line. Mistress could still change her mind, let him stay in the flat after their talk tonight, but that’s not particularly likely and he needs to have a backup plan. He can’t trust himself alone at his old flat—all mental simulations have made that painfully obvious—therefore, he needs to gain Doctor Watson’s trust and in order to do that, he needs to be able to play this properly.

            “You okay?”

            Doctor Watson’s voice startles him and he immediately squares his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Fine. Absolutely fine.” _Breathe. Relax. Strut. You’re both single, or about to be. This won’t be difficult._

            “I don’t think you are,” Doctor Watson says slowly. His fingers twitch- he wants to touch Sherlock- but he keeps his hands firmly at his sides. Sherlock isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or irritated at his self-control. “That was a bit harsh, keeping you outside when it’s like this. Did it bother you?”

            Sherlock presses his lips together and focuses on placing his feet. He knows he should be polite, despite the ridiculously gentle voice the doctor is using on him, but he also doesn’t want to insult Molly. She only did what she did because she cared about him, wanted him to have good manners for when it was time for him to find a new Dom. If that time has come earlier than expected, he’s the only one to blame.

            _Miss Hooper will not keep you unconditionally,_ Mycroft’s voice reminds him in a speech he’s played over countless times in his head. _Even she cannot train an impossible submissive. You will have to choose: your emotional well-being through voluntary submission and acceptance of your role, or to continue with your obstinacy and risk a relapse. Which would you prefer?_

            “Sherlock.” Doctor Watson prompts him again, with a hint of command in his voice this time that makes Sherlock want to drop to his knees and present his neck (but no, he can’t, not safe, even if it is Doctor Watson- _stop. If it’s necessary, you’ll do it_ ). He swallows to stave off the high-pitched whine threatening to claw its way up his throat, but Doctor Watson thankfully doesn’t seem to notice his distress. “This is important, so please answer me. Would you have safeworded out of the punishment if you could?”

            “ _No,_ ” Sherlock insists, glad that his voice doesn’t shake. In this, at least, he is certain. Molly has never pushed him inordinately far in her punishments. “Molly treats me just fine, Doctor, there’s nothing to worry about. Today was only difficult because I was already… not in the best of states.”

            “I see.” Doctor Watson is silent for a minute, and Sherlock tries to unobtrusively study his face as they continue along the sidewalk. He’s trying to figure something out, maybe weigh a decision, but that could just be wishful thinking on his own part. Perhaps he should plan what he’s going to say to Molly, how he’ll apologize and beg to stay in the flat for one more night, just in case this doesn’t pan out.

            But it will, of course it will. Doctor Watson is alone, and lonely; surely he’d jump at the chance to have a beautiful and willing sub kneel at his feet (and Sherlock _will_ be willing- it’s his decision to pursue this, after all, and even without cocaine, he’s fairly sure he can appear eager enough- acting has never been difficult for him).

            “Why do you call her by name?” the doctor asks suddenly, and just like that he’s given Sherlock the chance he was waiting for. “You did it earlier, too, when we were talking by the gate. Does Molly not use a title with you?”

            “She does,” Sherlock admits. “And I do use it, only…”

            “Only what?”

            And here Sherlock makes sure to duck his head, looking up at Doctor Watson through his eyelashes, keeping his expression as wretched as possible. “I think she may want to terminate our contract early.”

            “Early?”

            That’s not right. Sherlock frowns, recalculating. It’s not an improbable question, no, but he’s surprised that Doctor Watson’s decided to latch onto that particular piece of information instead of asking the rather more straightforward _why_ or even, though it had been a long shot, offering to do something about it. “Yes, early. We agreed on a six month arrangement, and we’re only a month or so in.” Better not to say why they’d agreed on six months (or, really, that it was hardly an agreement at all). “In any case, I’m going to have to figure out what to do now. I did have a flat before, but I don’t know if it’s still available, and I don’t particularly want to be alone at the moment…” Though the desolate note in his voice is manufactured, the anxiety building in his veins isn’t, and he is at once glad and nauseous to read the name of Molly’s street as they make the final turning.

            “That’s rubbish.”

            Again, Doctor Watson doesn’t follow the script, and Sherlock’s frozen for a moment, worried that he’s been called out.

            “What is?”

            “Molly’s not going to leave you because you slipped up, Sherlock,” Doctor Watson reassures him with a smile, and no, no, _no,_ it wasn’t supposed to go this way at all. “All subs make mistakes once in a while. The important thing is that you work through it together.”

            There’s no polite way to contradict him or explain what he wants, so Sherlock lowers his head again in a quick sort of half bow. “Yes, Doctor.”

            Perhaps he’s misjudged. But how can that be? Logically, Doctor Watson should be offering to claim him by this point. He’s proved himself to be interesting, vulnerable, (mostly) polite. It isn’t a question of gender; the fact that he needed self-control earlier speaks for itself. Maybe because he hasn’t officially broken it off with Molly yet? How to convince him that that’s all but a guarantee?

            They’ve reached the flat. Sherlock hesitates, toying with the key in his pocket.

            “Thank you for walking me home,” he says. “You didn’t have to.”

            “It was no trouble,” Doctor Watson replies, but a sort of glow comes to his face as he says it and he looks away for a moment, probably hiding a smile. (Affection, or amusement?) “Do you need me to walk you up?”

            “No, no, I’m fine,” Sherlock says hastily, then decides to make one last push. “But… there is one last thing you could do for me.” Doctor Watson looks up at him attentively and Sherlock clears his throat, suddenly feeling inexplicably anxious. “If you… wanted to learn more about my job, what I do. I have a blog. The Science of Deduction. If you like it, we could talk about it later. If that would please you.” The phrase is tacked onto the end, since he’s too tired to give a damn about politeness anymore, but Doctor Watson smiles at him and puts a hand on his shoulder and an unexpected spark of electricity shoots down Sherlock’s spine.

            “Of course I’ll look at it if you want me to,” he says. “I didn’t really get to tell you before, but that deduction thing. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

            And there it is. Sherlock doesn’t even care that the hand on his shoulder is closer to a friendly gesture than anything Dominating; the combined pleasure of the touch and the praise is enough to make his eyes flutter closed as he shows Doctor Watson the back of his neck.

            There’s a sharp intake of breath, but no grounding touch comes immediately to his vertebrae.

            “Sherlock… you can’t just _do_ that,” Doctor Watson breathes, but his hand hasn’t moved, and so Sherlock doesn’t either. They stay like that for a moment, Doctor Watson’s fingers clenching and unclenching ever so slightly against his shoulder. It’s reassuring in a way that Sherlock hasn’t felt in a long time, but as the seconds tick away he begins to feel uneasy. Has he pushed too far? He has no data for John Watson’s style of dominating, and he suddenly realizes with an icy stab of fear that he has no idea what he’s offering. Sex? A beating? He _has_ just presented himself to another Dominant with Molly right inside. Depending on how honourable Doctor Watson is, he could be facing much worse than a chaining to the hospital gate.

            However, just as his knees begin to tremble and he tries to straighten up, a hand clamps down on the back of his neck. It doesn’t hurt, but it does keep him in place as Doctor Watson leans forward to whisper into his ear.

            “I’m going to pretend that this didn’t happen.” His voice tickles the curls over Sherlock’s ear, but Sherlock doesn’t dare squirm. “I know you’ve been through a hell of a lot today and you’re probably feeling lost, but that is no excuse for endangering yourself like this. Do you understand?”

            Sherlock’s about to say he has a very good excuse indeed (fear doesn’t matter and physical health is a trivial concern when his mind and the Work are on the line) but his heart is pounding and there is really no other option than surrender. He nods. Doctor Watson’s fingers tighten on his neck for a moment, then release; Sherlock feels strangely lost when he lifts his head to see that they’re already standing several feet apart.

            “Good. Now, Molly’s waiting for you. Go to her.” There’s no room in his voice for argument, so Sherlock turns silently and inserts the key into the lock. He turns the knob, but pauses before he opens the door.

            “Doctor-”

            “I’ll still read your blog, Sherlock.” Doctor Watson’s voice has changed once again into something gentle and warm and Sherlock lets it wash over him like a blanket. “I forgive you.”

            “Thank you.” Sherlock carefully opens the door to avoid creaking, just in case Molly has already gone to bed. “Good night, Doctor.”

            “Good night, Sherlock.”

            As the door shuts behind him, Sherlock leans against it for a moment and closes his eyes. That wasn’t what he was expecting, not at all, but maybe… maybe it was for the best. If Doctor Watson had taken him up on his offer—still open-ended, which terrifies him more the longer he thinks about it—he could have been in a very different place right now. Half-formed memories of too-tight restraints and darkness tense his muscles and his breath catches in his chest.

            He needs Molly.

            It takes a few seconds of deliberation to decide how he’s going to do this. Crawling into the flat would be too presumptuous, as well as utterly humiliating if she has no intention of keeping him. Walking right in could make him seem too indifferent, or imply that he doesn’t care about what happened today. Still, for the moment he’d prefer dignity over humiliation, and discussing this as equals is probably the best way to go. If she wants him to kneel she’ll say so.

            Thus decided, he makes his way into the darkened flat, removing his coat, scarf and shoes before he reaches the sitting area. There is a half-full mug of tea on the kitchen counter, but no plates in the sink. No depressions in the couch cushions- even the curtains haven’t been closed. He pauses at the mouth of the hallway; there is a dim light coming from underneath Molly’s door. The desire to retreat into his closet is strong, but he takes a deep breath, walks forward, and knocks. “Molly?”

            “Come in.”

            Molly’s sitting up in bed, hair damp and wearing a nightgown; a few rumpled magazines lie on the sheets next to her. “How did it go?” she asks. Her smile is weak.

            “Fine. A bit cold.” Sherlock fidgets, unsure whether he’s supposed to kneel or if he should lower his head. “Molly-”

            “Come here.” Molly shifts so that she is no longer leaning against the headboard and pats the space next to her. Sherlock obeys, eyes downcast.

            “I…” Molly sighs. “I’m sorry about today, pet. I handled you very poorly, and _don’t_ you say that it’s all right. Yes, you were manipulative and slippery, but no more so than you always are. I had no right to scare you that way.”

            Sherlock stays silent for a moment, unwilling to let the hopeful bubble in his chest rise up too far. “Does that mean- will you take-”

            “Pet,” Molly says again, and with that one word, all of the day’s built-up tension drains from Sherlock’s body until he’s sagging against her, relief washing over him in waves. “I would never leave you on your own. Not like that.”

            “Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs desperately. He clings to her, buries his face in her neck, unable to properly express just how much this means to him, this second chance. “I swear, I’ll never do it again.”

            “Yes you will. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” But Mistress’ voice is teasing, and as she raises a hand to stroke through Sherlock’s hair, there’s only one thing missing from this absolutely perfect moment. Sherlock pulls away a few inches so he can look up at Mistress’ face.

            “Do you still have… it?” he asks, unable to keep all the hesitance from his voice. Mistress’ eyebrows furrow for less than a second and then she’s smiling and reaching towards her bedside table and-

            “Head down, pet,” she says, and Sherlock obeys immediately. Soft leather encircles his neck and presses ever so lightly on his vocal chords. He swallows, testing its stretch.

            It’s perfect.

            “Now, where do you need to sleep tonight?” Mistress asks him, running her fingers along the edge of the collar. “Do you need to be alone, or do you need me?”

            “You,” Sherlock replies instantly. He’s had enough of being alone today.

            “Good pet. Get up for a second.” Mistress pulls back the bedding and makes a free space for him, then pauses as she sees what he’s wearing. “If you’re not going to put on pyjamas, at least take off your jacket so it doesn’t get wrinkled.”

            Sherlock’s fingers fumble with the buttons but he manages to get it off and, after a moment of consideration, untuck it from his trousers before he crawls under the blankets. Mistress flicks off the light, and then there is some quiet rustling as she settles herself.

            “We’ll discuss everything in the morning,” she promises, reaching out to tuck a curl behind Sherlock’s ear. He shivers at the sensation. “But know that, for right now, you’re safe, and I care about you, and you will always have a place with me if you need it. You have no more outstanding punishments to take. All you need to do now is sleep.”

            “Yes, Mistress.” Sherlock closes his eyes, relishing the gentle touches to his scalp as he drifts off.

            Just as he’s about to go under, a brief twinge of regret flares between his ribs but before he can properly begin to analyse it, it’s gone and he is asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! As usual, things take longer than expected and the characters run away from me. We delve into a bit of backstory this time- I do hope that Sherlock isn't being too hard to understand. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask (plans have shifted since the beginning of the story, and so my cues may have gone awry)!
> 
> We'll get back to John and the case next chapter.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

            Warm. That’s the first thing Sherlock notices as he fades back into consciousness, quickly followed by the observation that the mattress he’s lying on is Molly’s, not his own. The reason’s not important at the moment, so he yawns and stretches, taking stock of his body: sore, especially about the wrists, and still dressed in yesterday’s clothes; still, he’s in overall good condition. His mind is blessedly clear and growing more alert with each passing second, an enormous relief after the fog of last night.

            Last night. He opens his eyes, squinting slightly at the light streaming in through the bedroom window, and forces himself to sit upright and rub the sleep from his eyes. The past thirty-six hours have been nothing but embarrassment, and last night was the culmination of a disgusting loss of self-control. His behaviour around Molly, perhaps, is tolerable, since she would never hold it over his head or tell anyone about it—not even Mycroft, she’s promised—but there had been no reason to extend that carelessness to Doctor Watson. Yes, he’d been dropping, that was unavoidable during his punishments, and yes, Doctor Watson’s presence had been surprisingly comforting, but that wasn’t a reason to walk home with him and show him his _neck_ , for god’s sake.

            Sherlock rakes his fingers through his hair and falls back onto the pillows with a sigh. Molly’s side has gone cold; she must be in the kitchen. Making breakfast, no doubt for the both of them. Well, he might as well get up and get something to eat. No reason to be rude just because he’s having a crisis. He goes over to the dresser and pulls out a clean pair of pants and socks from his drawer, then puts them on and places his dirty clothes into the hamper before leaving the bedroom.

            The smell of frying eggs and tomatoes greets him as he opens the door, but he’s in a dark enough mood that he can’t find it in himself to appreciate it. _Get a handle on your temper, brother dear. It’s unbecoming._ Sherlock scowls and goes to his closet to pick out his clothes for the day. _Calm. She already gave you care, you should be calm._ He needs the comfort that a good suit of armour can provide, so he takes down the hanger with his Spencer Hart suit and a deep blue shirt and retreats back into Molly’s bathroom to finish getting dressed and groom himself.

            By the time he’s finished and come out into the flat proper, the stove has been turned off and Molly is placing two glasses of orange juice beside their plates on the table. She smiles at him as he approaches, and lifts her brows incrementally: it’s Sherlock’s choice how they interact this morning. Thank god.

            “Good morning, Molly.” Sherlock decides on cordial but very much _not_ submissive, and tries to return the smile as he sits and places the napkin on his lap. “Did you sleep well?” It’s a silly question; he knows she hasn’t, judging by the wrinkles on her pillow and the fact that she’s woken up so much earlier than him. However, she generally likes it when he asks mundane questions, and it’s no trouble, so no harm done.

            “Better than I thought I was going to.” Molly takes the cue and sips her juice as she sits down. “I hate putting you out there at night. James is a saint for getting you home safe all the time.”

            Sherlock pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, uncertain if he should tell her who actually took him home last night. It’s not something Molly would punish him for, not at all (as long as he doesn’t tell her what happened after), but he can’t quite shake the feeling of guilt he gets when he thinks about it. The sentiment is made even more ridiculous when he remembers that nothing actually _happened_ , that Doctor Watson had only grabbed his neck in rebuke, not in anything approaching interest.

            “Yes, I know that James didn’t take you home last night,” Molly says, noticing his discomfort. “He texted me after the two of you left. Was John kind to you?”

            Regardless of intent, the memory of Doctor Watson’s calloused fingers on the back of his neck makes Sherlock’s cheeks tinge slightly and he ducks his head as he finally takes a bite of his food. “Yes, kind.” Eager to change the subject, he clears his throat and asks, “You said we were going to discuss things today?”

            “Yes.” Molly lowers her juice and fixes Sherlock with a serious gaze. “Would you rather I take your collar off, or leave it on?”

            The suggestion sends a spark of anxiety through Sherlock, and he automatically raises a hand to trace over the black leather in a self-soothing motion. She’s only offering to level the playing field, he knows, not threatening him, and it’s not like he has any particular affection for the collar anyway, but the emotional stress of yesterday is still wreaking havoc with his system and he decides he doesn’t want to risk it.

            “Leave it,” he says. “It doesn’t make me any less lucid when it’s on.”

            “All right, then. On.” Molly leans forward, elbows on the table, and studies his face. She’s not quite going into Dom space, but Sherlock can feel the submissive part of himself sympathetically lowering its head. He’ll keep an eye on it. “You made several big mistakes yesterday,” Molly continues. “Do you know what they were?”

            “Lying to you,” Sherlock replies immediately. All past experience has pointed to appeasement as the best way to get back into a Dom’s good graces and even though Molly’s said he’s forgiven for yesterday, there’s still a part of him that insists he tell her explicitly that he understands what he’s done wrong.

            “Yes, good,” Molly says, “but what did you lie about?”

            “I pretended to be you,” Sherlock continues earnestly. “I lied to Lestrade on your phone, and I lied to you about where I was going.”

            “Good,” Molly says again, and a tendril of pleasure curls up Sherlock’s spine. He allows himself to enjoy it for a moment and then discards it. “Now, what can we do differently next time?”

            The answer is a bit obvious, but then Molly probably just wants him to spell it out. Sherlock has found that the Dom/sub dynamic involves a lot of repeating back incredibly simple things. He has also found that it is better to comply. “I won’t lie to you again,” Sherlock assures her. He expects her to smile and tell him “good boy,” but when nothing happens, he starts to feel unsure. Tentatively he adds, “I also won’t lie to Lestrade…?” but Molly just sighs.

            “Good try,” she says, “but I’ve already told you not to make promises you can’t keep. You can certainly try to be more honest- I’ll appreciate that. But ‘we’ includes me. I want to know what I can do to make things easier for you.”

            Sherlock frowns. “What can _you-_ ”

            “Yes, me. What would you like me to do?” Molly watches him expectantly, but his mind is blank. “It’s not just your responsibility to change, pet. If you’re having a hard time following my rules, then I need to fix them so you can follow them more easily.”

            “Not all of them,” Sherlock counters sharply, suddenly on the defensive. She’s used his title, broken the rules. Broken them twice, since he hadn’t wanted to submit in the first place. “You punish me for being disrespectful and never mention changing that one.”

            “Circumstances matter,” Molly says. “I punish you when you’re able to think but choose not to. You needed aftercare yesterday, and I wasn’t providing it. I thought keeping you at work with me would help, but obviously it didn’t.”

            Sherlock keeps his own, more scathing, _obviously_ to himself, and pushes his eggs moodily around his plate.

            “Do you know what else you did wrong?” Molly prompts him gently. “It’s pretty obvious to me.”

            Obvious? He could have been paying more attention during the day, but she’s hardly going to punish him for being bored. He hadn’t had any outstanding orders he was ignoring, he was wearing his collar—well, he had taken it off, and that was something he’d been punished for, but that’s not what Molly’s getting at—

            “What made you want to lie to me?” Molly asks. “You were bored out of your mind, but any other day you still would have asked me before you went off to a crime scene. So what was different?”

            Sherlock’s face dissolves into a scowl, and he pushes his plate away in preparation to stand up. Molly is quicker than him, however, and closes her fingers around his wrist. Sherlock’s entire body tenses, quivering; for a moment he wonders if he’s going to be slapped.

            “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Molly says quietly. “You get angry, and then you run away. You’re not allowed to run away anymore, do you understand me?”

            Sherlock bristles at the command. He could escape if he wanted to; Molly is smaller than he is, weaker, and he could easily break her wrist. Domme or not, she cannot force him to talk about these dark, shameful things that fester in the back of his mind, things that he cannot delete no matter how hard he tries.

            …But that’s exactly the point. She cannot _force_ him to do anything. She doesn’t have to; he’ll surrender anyway, a slave to his biology.

            “You have to let me in,” Molly persists, her voice a touch gentler, if still overwhelmingly Dominant. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but you’ve been with me for a month and all I know about you is what your brother’s told me. I thought you’d made some progress, that you’d started to trust me.”

            _What I know about you_. As if his entire identity had been based off of an accident and a series of idiotic mistakes. Sherlock tries to twist his wrist out of Molly’s grip, but she holds on and a burning desperation flares low in his stomach before cooling into a resigned despair.

            “I do trust you, Molly,” he says quietly, “more than I’ve trusted any Dom. But talking about it is not going to miraculously cure me of my temperament or change my opinions on submission. I’m claiming a limit.”

            Molly is silent for a minute, watching him with a pained expression that he hasn’t seen since the night he was brought to her. “I’ll respect it,” she says, “but, Sherlock… part of my job is to help you work through things like this.”

            “Mycroft asked you to keep me clean and to teach me obedience,” Sherlock corrects her. “No more than that. I’ve promised not to run away, and I promise to submit myself to your will for the next five months so that when they are over, he will leave me and my decisions _alone._ ”

            Molly’s hand loosens around his wrist but she doesn’t let go; rather, she begins to stroke at his pulse point, her eyes sad.

            “You know you don’t have to stay with me if you don’t want to,” she says. “If I’m not what you need, I’m sure Mycroft would be willing to-”

            “Mycroft has done far too much for me already,” Sherlock interrupts her. “He’s not going to want to help.”

            Before Molly can reply, Sherlock’s phone sounds a text alert. Using the hand that Molly’s not holding, he reaches into his jacket and glances at the screen. It’s an unknown number.

            “Lestrade?” Molly asks. Her voice is light, but Sherlock can hear the strain underneath it. He ignores her and pulls out the phone, unlocking the screen so he can read the whole message.

            _Hello Sherlock, it’s John. I looked at your blog last night and I just wanted to say it was very impressive. If I hadn’t seen you do it myself I don’t think I would have believed it. How on earth did you learn all of that?_

            Sherlock blinks several times, at a loss for how to respond. Molly’s hand has stilled on his—she must have realized it’s not Lestrade but she doesn’t know anything else. He opens his mouth just as another message comes through.

            _If this was inappropriate, please tell me. I didn’t know when I’d see you again but I wanted to make sure you knew I’d followed through on the promise. BTW, having your mobile number on a public site probably isn’t the best idea._

            “Well? Who is it?” Molly asks. Their conversation has taken a backseat in her mind to the current mystery, and Sherlock finds the knot of tension in his stomach easing ever so slightly, only to be replaced by a new kind of anxiety as he sends a text back.

_No, it’s… fine. SH_

            “Doctor Watson,” he says at last. “I told him about my website last night and he decided to take a look.” He feels oddly warm inside. He hadn’t thought that the doctor would have taken his request seriously; it was just the fevered ramblings of a sub in drop, nothing of consequence. Even if he’d been amenable before Sherlock’s ridiculous display, the idea that he would have retracted his promise as a punishment of sorts wouldn’t have surprised Sherlock in the least. But he had looked.

            And he’d referred to himself as John. Does that mean that Sherlock is to follow suit? After all, he hadn’t used Doctor Watson’s title with anything approaching regularity in their conversation, and he’s not even Sherlock’s Dom.

            _Fine to text you, or fine that anybody in the UK can get your number just from typing your name in Google?_

            An idea springs to mind and he goes to type another reply before he remembers where he is. Current informality or not, Molly is still his Domme and won’t appreciate another misdirection. Yesterday was a shining example of that.

            “Molly,” he asks slowly, “since I’ve been forgiven, would you mind if I go and see Lestrade today?”

            “Lestrade?” Molly tilts her head, confused. “But you’re talking to John, aren’t you?”

            “I’ll invite him to come along. Nothing particularly dangerous on the schedule today, just some interrogating of witnesses and the like. Unless…” Sherlock suddenly feels a prickle of doubt radiate down his spine and he curls into himself slightly. He’s not doing anything wrong, not really—Molly never accompanies him to work—but he suddenly wonders if this is going to cause offense. Molly’s gone to all the trouble of cooking him breakfast, she’s forgiven him his horrible behaviour, and now he’s just going to run out again without a word of thanks or any sort of reciprocation.

            _“You owe me.” Bruising fingers around his wrist, pulling him close, too close. He turns his head away, refusing the kiss._

_“I won’t do it. Safeword.”_

_The fingers dig into his tendons; he wants to cry out in pain but he keeps his mouth shut, biting his lip. He’s suffered this trick before._

_“Yes? What about a safeword? You never made one.” Thin lips keep aiming for his, missing, getting thinner every time. His face feels hot._

_“I MEANT I’m using one. Safeword. Get off of me. Now.”_

_“Oh, but I’ve done so much for you today.” Another hand grabs his chin, forcing him to look into watery blue eyes. “I took you for a lovely walk earlier with your brand new collar. It’s your turn to give me something back.”_

_“But I don’t WANT to, you know I don’t- Sebastian-!”_

            “You’re getting to a dark place, pet.” Molly’s voice penetrates the murky fog of his thoughts as a warm hand touches the back of his neck. The fingers are daintier than those in his memory. “Come back, you were doing so well.”

            Sherlock takes a deep breath, shaking his head to clear it. Molly lets him pull his wrist back with no resistance, and he rubs lightly at the skin to wash away the old sensation. It helps, but only barely.

            “I don’t mind if you take John with you, pet,” Molly continues in a reassuring voice. “You’re allowed to have friends, and you’re allowed to go places without me, especially when you ask so politely.”

            Sherlock knows what she’s doing, what she’s going to suggest next, but he allows himself to cling to the light praise like a patch of sun on a freezing winter’s day. Damn it, he shouldn’t still be like this; Molly had taken adequate care of him last night and nothing’s happened to set him back into drop. He needs to get himself back under control.

            “Please let me fix this,” Molly whispers. She’s stroking his hair now, and it feels absolutely marvellous, but another part of him wants to squirm away from her touch. “I promised you I wouldn’t make you submit, but you can’t keep putting it off. It’s not good for you. This… this is only going to get worse.”

            “Don’t.” Sherlock pulls away from her, slowly enough that her fingers don’t tangle in his hair, but firmly enough that she doesn’t try to hold on. He picks up his fork and resumes eating his (now cold) breakfast, even though his stomach feels more like a rock than an organ. “May I text John, then?”

            The name switch happens without his conscious consent and he tenses momentarily, but Molly makes no comment on it. She simply murmurs a quiet “yes, pet,” and stands to take her mostly-full dish to the sink. Sherlock sits quietly for a moment, then activates the screen of his phone and composes a text.

            _Both. If you’d like to see me again, I’m working today. Meet at NSY? SH_

            John replies affirmatively within a minute and Sherlock tries to ignore the anxious flutter that goes through his stomach as he goes to retrieve his coat and scarf. John is coming along as a colleague, as an acquaintance, maybe even something approaching a friend (you’ve known him less than a day; delete that immediately). He will not touch Sherlock, he will not try to Dom him, and Lestrade will be there in case anything goes awry. He will be fine.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was the Chapter That Would Never End. I refused to publish it before it got to the ending I wanted, but then the story kept shoving things in there and putting things off, and some things had to be re-written, and it was in general just a lot of work getting this one out.
> 
> We delve back into the case this chapter: I'll state for the record I have no idea how cases are actually worked at NSY, so I'm of course using my imagination. I also hope my deductions are up to snuff, or at least aren't atrociously horrible. Despite the length of the chapter, I did have a lot of fun writing it, and I hope that you enjoy reading it.

            John sits back in his chair, reading and rereading the texts on his phone until the screen goes black. All told, that had gone much better than expected—from what Molly’s told him about Sherlock, he’d doubted that he would get a response, much less an invitation to go and watch him work.

            Speaking of which, he needs to go and get dressed. Hoisting himself out of his chair, he makes his way back to his room (thankfully his leg isn’t bothering him too badly today) and ponders what sorts of clothes would be appropriate for both an outing to Scotland Yard and for spending time with a sub.

            Not that this is a date, of course. Sherlock belongs to Molly, he reminds himself, and no matter how strange their terms are to him, he needs to respect that. Still, he can’t deny the fact that his Dominant side had reacted to Sherlock last night in a way that it hadn’t in almost two months and the feeling of being helpful, appreciated, _needed_ , had cut deep. Sherlock had shown him his _neck_ , for god’s sake, after knowing him for barely an hour.

            “Because he was frightened and in drop,” John reminds himself firmly, clenching his fingers around the lip of a drawer. “Not because he wanted you manhandling him.” But, _god_ , what that had done to him, seeing Sherlock’s pale neck out on display, the way his body had reacted just from a few words of praise. John had wanted so badly to take that face in his hands and force Sherlock to look him in the eye, to listen and obey and _relax_. It pained him that a sub could feel that frightened of abandonment, so wound up that the only solution they could see was to seduce a random Dom in the street; the fact that the only comfort he’d been able to offer had been some bland conversation and weak assurances only chipped away at him further.

            John takes a deep breath to steady himself and pulls out his favourite jumper and a pair of brown slacks from the dresser. It’s not his place to question how Molly handles her relationship with Sherlock—nor is her sub his responsibility—but it’s obvious to him that something’s wrong. Sherlock’s behaviour is not normal for a collared sub living with a loving Domme. Granted, he doesn’t seem like the adoring type to begin with, but the amount of tension John had seen thrumming through his body during their short conversation and the halting, awkward attempts at flirting were consistent with subs who had been treated poorly by Doms – often due to inexperience or lack of knowledge in how to negotiate for their needs. Maybe Sherlock simply hasn’t gotten comfortable with Molly yet—he did say that their contract was only a month in—but John can’t help but wonder what Molly’s been doing this whole time if she can’t even establish basic trust with Sherlock. Sherlock had seemed genuinely convinced that he was going to be dismissed and homeless before the night was out. John’s glad to see that that’s not the case, but his chest aches and he really needs to stifle this before he does something he’ll regret. He’s practically middle-aged; going a few months without a sub isn’t the end of the world.

            His phone chimes with a text just as he’s grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. He ignores it for the moment and clomps down the stairs, calling a quick goodbye to Mrs Hudson as he exits the building. The cold air burns his lungs and he takes a moment to just breathe before he slides his phone out of his pocket.

            _Hi, John, Sherlock’s just left. He’s allowed to be out all day if he likes, so don’t worry about getting him back to me. He’s still a bit out of sorts, though, so please watch out for him and don’t let him run off. xMolly_

            John huffs out a laugh and slowly taps out his response as he sets off towards the Tube. _Is that likely?_

            _He’s done it before, but I don’t think he’ll do it to you. He likes you._

            John lets that one sit unanswered until he’s on the train and found a seat. A woman with more grey hairs than he does had offered it; he tries to ignore the sting.

            _How do you mean he likes me? I just met him last night._

_You’re the first staff member to keep his attention for more than five seconds- he actually called you interesting a few nights ago. And he did ask you to walk him home._

            John blushes a little bit and ducks his head, deferring to Molly even though she isn’t physically there. _I didn’t mean anything by it, I just wanted him to get home safe. Nothing happened._ Well, that’s not _completely_ true… but for some inexplicable reason John wants to keep that moment to himself. Besides, he doesn’t want to get Sherlock in trouble in case he hasn’t told his Domme about it. He wasn’t thinking clearly, it wasn’t his fault.

            _It’s okay, John, it’s not a problem. Actually, if he tries anything else like that today, let him. Tell me about it, but let him do what he wants. This could be a good day for him._

            John stares blankly at his phone. The automated voice on the speakers reminds him that Oxford Circus is coming up, and he stumbles to his feet; the woman that offered him her seat looks at him pityingly out of the corner of her eye. As he limps off of the train, very pointedly taking a long step over the gap, John hopes that she’s not a Domme.

            She probably is.

            Finding a seat on the Victoria line is a bit easier and John pulls out his phone again. _Tell me about it._ He highly doubts Molly is trying to catch Sherlock behaving badly in order to punish him; she’s much too gentle for that. But then what does she want? He settles for the safe question.

            _What do you mean, a good day?_

            Molly’s reply is a long time in coming and John is making his final switch to the Circle line when his phone finally vibrates again.

            _Talk to Sherlock about it. I could be reading him wrong, but I think he’s taking a step forward in a really important way by inviting you out today. Don’t forbid him from doing anything just because he’s mine. Use your judgement. I trust you not to push him._

            John’s shoulders straighten almost of their own accord and he feels a sudden rush of determination flood him with purpose. A Domme is entrusting him with her sub. He still isn’t quite sure what’s going on, but he understands the responsibility she’s given him and intends to make her proud.

            _Thank you. I’ll do my best._

            The train pulls into St James’s Park. John hauls himself to his feet yet again (he is very much _not_ looking forward to the return trip) and makes his way back up to the surface.

* * *

 

 

            Sherlock has just passed for a twelfth time by the rotating Scotland Yard sign (ridiculous idea, whoever thought that up? It’s not like they want to attract customers, certainly not _business_ \- or do they? Interesting idea, should think about that later when he has more time, he can’t focus right now) when he sees John Watson turn the corner and his legs turn to stone. His mind stutters for a moment, simultaneously trying to settle on a pose that makes it look like he hasn’t just been spending the past ten minutes pacing outside of Scotland Yard and wondering why on earth he cares; in the end he simply shoves his hands into his pockets and tries to smile in a way that is not too disconcerting.

            “Hello… John?” He lets his voice trail upwards into a question, just in case, but Doctor Watson doesn’t seem to be insulted. Rather, he offers Sherlock a friendly smile that makes his skin tingle warmly—not an entirely unpleasant sensation—and holds out a hand.

            “Morning, Sherlock,” he says cheerfully. “I hope you’re feeling better?”

            “Much.” The warmth diminishes somewhat; he doesn’t particularly want to talk about last night, but thankfully it doesn’t look like John wants to either. He’s just making small talk. Sherlock gestures towards the entrance and leads them in, forcing himself to take deep breaths. He doesn’t know what’s gotten him so worked up, but he needs to relax. He’s just taking a new tentative-friend to see his work. It would be nice if John enjoyed himself, but there’s really no pressure. If he’s going to get squeamish and run, now is probably the best time.

            “I see you’ve got your collar back,” John remarks as Sherlock leads him toward the front desk. “I assume things are fine with you and Molly again?”

            Sherlock raises a hand and casually shifts his scarf to cover the leather. “In a manner of speaking. It was how you said, she wasn’t actually planning on leaving me. I would have noticed the signs if I had been thinking clearly at the time, but… obviously that wasn’t the case. It’s perhaps the only time I’ve ever appreciated an incorrect deduction.”

            “Name?” the officer behind the desk (sub, single mother, in the police force to assert her independence to her family) asks them kindly. She thinks they are both Dominants. Sherlock smiles at her.

            “Sherlock Holmes, here to see Inspector Lestrade,” he replies. “Giving a statement for a case.”

            “I’ll call up,” she says, and turns back to her phone. Sherlock inclines his head and takes a few steps back from the desk, beckoning John to follow him.

            …Oh. Beckoning. He abruptly cuts off the gesture, but John doesn’t seem to be angry. He follows easily enough (his limp is still present, but doesn’t seem to be on his mind at the moment) and settles in to wait, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

            “So, how do people see you around here?” he asks. “Do they know…?”

            _Oh._ Sherlock’s cheeks warm slightly but he quickly smothers the surprised gratitude. John is more observant than he’d given him credit for. “All of Lestrade’s team do. The rest of them… see what I like them to see.”

            “Right.” John nods. “Guess it could make working with the police a bit difficult.”

            “It does, at times,” Sherlock admits. “Though Lestrade himself is a submissive, and he takes on most of the lower submissive officers for training. He’s rather good at it.”

            “Mr Holmes?” The woman behind the desk waves to catch his attention. “The Detective Inspector is ready for you. You can go up now.”

            Sherlock sends her another smile and nods, then turns towards the lifts. John follows at his heels, and for a moment he is struck with a strange sense of vertigo at the perverseness of it all—a Dom waiting for his cues instead of the other way around. He tentatively tries to slide himself into the role, pretend that he’s a Dom and John is a sub (or even another Dom- Sherlock would not object to being gay if it meant regaining his self-respect) that he’s taking out to his work, but it makes his stomach feel sick and he reluctantly drops the idea, feeling his mood sink a little bit lower.

            “So, what sort of work are you on today?” John asks as Sherlock presses the call lift button. John seems to very much enjoy asking questions. “Still on that serial killer case you were telling me about?”

            Sherlock gives him a pointed look. “Of course. Have you heard news of a murderer being caught in the last twelve hours?”

            John shrugs. “No, but then I don’t always follow the news closely.” Something must occur to him, then, because his face suddenly shifts and Sherlock feels a wave of concern override the creeping melancholy.

            “What is it?”

            John clears his throat. “Are we going to be… talking to potential murderers today?”

            That’s all? Sherlock wants to roll his eyes (as much at his own reaction as at John’s predictability), but restrains himself. _Manners, pet._ Of course Lestrade wouldn’t bring any murder suspects up to his and his colleagues’ offices, but John is not a part of the police force and has little experience in this area. He will have to be led, at least for now.

            “No,” he says, and steps into the now open lift. “Just family and friends of the deceased. We’re still trying to gather enough data to put together a list of suspects.” It pains him to make the admission. “Still, with the information I gave Lestrade at the last crime scene, he must have been able to get something by now.”

            John nods again, and rocks for a moment on the balls of his feet. Sherlock watches him, half in amusement and half in curiosity. Is this really so distracting to him that he can forget about his limp this easily? He hasn’t even heard any of the details about the case. Speaking of which-

            “Who’s been murdered, anyway?” John asks, right on schedule. “Do they have a demographic?”

            “All of the victims have been Dominants,” Sherlock replies. “Apart from that, there is no gender bias, none of them are related to each other, they do not share professions, and their circles of friends do not overlap. Their families have tended towards the conservative side, but that’s hardly a reason to murder anyone.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Hopefully the family of our newest victim will be more forthcoming.”

            “More-?” John catches onto his wording quickly. “You think they haven’t been honest?”

            “I doubt they’ve outright lied to us, but everyone has been keeping ridiculously mum,” Sherlock says, a bite of frustration colouring his voice. “You would think having a loved one murdered would be enough to make anyone talk, but apparently there are things more important than blood.”

            The lift doors open and Sherlock strides out onto the floor, looking about for Lestrade. He isn’t immediately visible- his office, then. Except the door is closed. Sherlock draws up short. Behind him, John pauses as well; Sherlock can practically hear his confusion, and tries to tamp down on the embarrassment he can feel welling up in his stomach.

            “Over here, freak!”

            It’s almost a relief to hear Sally’s voice. Sherlock turns and sees her standing, arms crossed, by the empty office they often use while working on difficult cases. John huffs out a sound of disgust, or perhaps disbelief, but that’s not important after what Sally says next.

            “The Chief Inspector’s in,” she informs him. “You won’t be doing any questioning today.”

            That can’t be right. He can’t be denied access, not today; Molly’s let him come in to work, even invite John. He can’t let John see him get turned back now. “But Lestrade wanted me to come!” he protests, stalking towards her. “They wouldn’t have let me upstairs otherwise!”

            “I never said you had to go, now did I?” Sally replies smugly, and Sherlock growls. He ought to have caught that. _Get him out of your head right NOW, he’s ruining you._ Of course Sally takes that moment to notice John, who’s come to stand by Sherlock’s side.

            “Who’s this?” she asks, trying far too late to change her demeanour back to something approaching professionalism.

            “Friend,” Sherlock says dismissively. There are more important things to talk about. “If I can’t be questioning witnesses, what’s the point of my being here?”

            “A friend?” Of course Sally can’t let it be. “A Dominant friend, I see. Have you told Molly?”

            “Molly knows I’m here,” John interjects, voice firm, before Sherlock can say anything, “and I am a friend of Sherlock’s.” He glances up, making eye contact momentarily as if to check that his claim is acceptable before continuing. “Now, what’s the problem? What can’t he go in?”

            “Like I said, the Chief Inspector’s here,” Sally says, looking slowly from Sherlock to John. “You’re not actually part of the force, so he can’t see you working the case. Lestrade’s trying to warm him up to the idea of a consultant, probably someone with a background of psychology, who can tell if people are lying. Think you can manage that?”

            Sherlock rolls his eyes. The persona will be easy, even on this short notice, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. It’ll be harder to direct the witness this way, manipulate them into giving away information. He’ll be further away and certain tells or behaviours will be harder to see. Then there’s also the matter of John. Best to keep him in his comfort zone, if he needs a cover story.

            “I trust that Doctor Watson will be able to accompany me?” he asks in the bland manner that often discomfits people just enough to let him get his way. It irritates him that he has go to back to using titles, now that he’s reached a first-name basis with John, but Sally will give him no end of hell if she finds out, and the pettier side of him doesn’t want her to know John’s name in the first place. “After all, those murders took so much skill, and you’d need a competent medical professional who could suggest the sort of person who would be able to commit them.”

            Sally doesn’t let him down. She stares at him for a minute, then raises her hands in surrender and shakes her head.

            “It’s not me who has to push it, so you do whatever you like,” she says. “We’ll be in interviewing room A. You’re to stay _outside the room_ at all times, do you understand?”

            Sherlock growls low in his throat at her use of command voice, but gives her a tight nod and sets off towards the other side of the floor. Neither his momentary victory nor John following at his heels do anything to mitigate his frustration, and it takes several seconds before he can make out someone saying his name through the angry grey static clouding his ears.

            “-lock. _Sherlock,_ _relax._ ”

            He stops in his tracks for the second time in five minutes and turns to stare at John in exasperation, fingers twitching irritably. “Yes, what is it, John?”

            John doesn’t respond for a moment, eyes wide- he hadn’t been expecting for Sherlock to actually listen to him. Ridiculous. John is a Dominant, of course Sherlock’s brain would react to his commands. He’ll admit he is a bit surprised to find the usual irritation at being ordered about less acute than usual, but that _was_ the nature of the order, after all, and his mind is incrementally clearer than it was just a moment ago. He sighs and wills some more of the tension out of his shoulders. “Sorry. Did you need something?”

            “Just for you to calm down. I-” John’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and Sherlock frowns. He’s feeling wrong-footed, anxious. Why? “Does she always treat you like that?”

            “Giving me orders?” Sherlock tilts his head. That is generally a day-to-day occurrence among every section of the population, considering positions of power and varying leadership potential within professions, but John probably means the hard-handed way in which Sally throws her commands at him, as if she owns him and he’s misbehaved. “When Lestrade’s not around to keep her in check, yes, but it’s hardly important. I think it’s because she’s sleeping with Anderson; no sub presence in her life, has to get the rush somewhere.”

            “That’s… wrong on several counts, but not what I was getting at.” John continues, undeterred, and a bubble of something wells up uncomfortably in Sherlock’s chest. “She’s got you responding to ‘freak’, Sherlock. You raised your head when you heard it. That’s not okay.”

            Sherlock blinks slowly and resists the urge to touch his collar, settling instead on running his fingers over the rough material of his coat as he ponders how best to explain this to John. He truly doesn’t mind Sally’s name for him- the animosity between them has several causes but none of them are particularly worrisome. If anything, it’s a pet name, albeit in her own, sandpapery way. What interests him more is why John’s taken such offense to it, but before he can say anything, the door to Lestrade’s office has opened and the DI is leading the Chief Inspector their way.

            “Ah, Lestrade, good to see you!” The fake, cheerful voice is easy to produce, and Sherlock strides forward to meet Lestrade with an energetic handshake. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that the doctor you wanted has arrived as well. Came up in the lift with me. Lovely chap.”

            Lestrade’s brow furrows. “Doct-?” Sherlock jerks his head slightly towards John and

Lestrade looks him over. “Ah, yes.” His voice sounds a bit sour and Sherlock frowns. Lestrade turns back to the CI, throwing him an apologetic (stressed) smile as he gestures to Sherlock and John. “We’ll get underway in a minute, sir,” he says, “just have to fill them in on the particulars and then we’ll be ready to go.”

            As Sherlock follows Lestrade away from both the Chief and the interrogation room, he can’t help but feel as if he’s done something wrong, yet he can’t figure out what it is. True, he’s never brought someone along to Scotland Yard before, but surely that’s not enough to warrant Lestrade’s temper? He resists the urge to look at John, a tiny part of his brain afraid to see John’s reaction to all of this ridiculousness. Surely he has better things to do with his time than watch Sherlock be herded around the offices and chastised like a misbehaving child.

            Finally they stop and Lestrade turns to face them again, tired exasperation writ large across his features.

            “Sorry about that,” he says to John. “Things are a bit wild today, what with the Chief coming in, and I wasn’t expecting to have to cover for Sherlock on top of everything else.” He pauses, glancing between them. “ _Are_ you a friend of his? He generally doesn’t make a habit of dragging people in here off the street, but I do like to know who I’m letting in to confidential case information.”

            Sherlock opens his mouth, about to take offense, but John just shakes his head and laughs, and Sherlock looks over at him, startled. John’s eyes are crinkled at the corners, and bright. He _is_ enjoying himself. Somehow.

            “No, it’s all right,” John replies. “I’m Doctor John Watson- work at Bart’s Hospital in sub trauma. We met last night and he invited me to come see his work. It sounded interesting.” He winces, and smiles apologetically. “I know that’s not the best endorsement. If you don’t want me to stay, I completely understand. I know it’s not really procedure.”

            Lestrade waves his hand dismissively. “Eh, it’s too late now. You’ve already got a reason to be here, flimsy though it may be. Just don’t go around telling people about this.” He scrubs a hand through his hair (soothing gesture – is the case really going so poorly?) and glances over at Sherlock. “Doctor Watson… would you mind giving us a minute? I need to talk to Sherlock alone.”

            John’s eyes dart up to meet Sherlock’s, but he has no reaction to offer except a shrug. Lestrade often does things he cannot understand – this moment is no exception. John holds his gaze for a few moments longer, then finally nods.

            “Sure,” he replies. “I’ll just go and wait for you, yeah?”

            “Not by the Chief,” Lestrade cautions him. “Don’t need him asking you anything. But yeah, it’ll only be a minute. Sorry about this.”

            “It’s fine,” John says, and smiles once more before sidling off through the rows of aisles and cubicles. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Lestrade lets out an explosive sigh and whirls to face Sherlock with a glare.

            “Not that I’m not glad you’re here, but how on _earth_ did you manage to get Molly to let you come back so soon? I thought after yesterday she wouldn’t let you back on scenes for at least a week.”

            Sherlock averts his eyes and fidgets with the lapel of his coat. He doesn’t particularly like discussing these sorts of things with Lestrade, but he supposes privacy went out the window the same time as his sobriety. “She said I was forgiven last night after I came home,” he says quietly. “No threatening or begging required.”

            “Mycroft chose you a damn good one, didn’t he?” Lestrade sounds almost wistful. (Traditional ex-Domme. Much less flexible with punishments, almost no leeway for extenuating circumstances. Suffocating. No wonder he left.) “What about your new friend? He works at the same hospital as Molly, doesn’t he?”

            Sherlock doesn’t answer.

            “ _Sherlock._ ” Lestrade’s command voice is fake, developed over several years of being in the force, but it still makes Sherlock shiver in a mix of hazy memories and Dom withdrawal. He locks his knees and tries to ignore it. “Are you _safe_?”

            “What? Of course I am.” Sherlock shoots Lestrade a puzzled look. “I’m not _playing_ with him, I just met him last night.” (Bad justification, contradicted by past, try again.) “I’m still with Molly, for god’s sake.”

            “Yes, and she’s supposed to be preparing you for stuff like this,” Lestrade says matter-of-factly, as if Sherlock is a child. “Meeting new Doms, making sure you ask for what you need and all that.”

            “Molly gives me what I need.” The lie slips easily off of his tongue and he manages to keep his face blank, but he suspects that Lestrade is more perceptive than he’s been letting on. “I don’t need to go outside of the contract for orders and a guiding hand.”

            “It’s about more than that, you know,” Lestrade says quietly. “And what about when it ends? You won’t be with her forever.”

            Sherlock’s cheek twitches and he breathes in sharply through his nose, trying to tamp down the pervasive flare of fear that’s just extended itself once more through his veins.

            “I still have five months,” he says steadily. “I’ll learn what I can from her—perhaps she has advice for how to deal with being unclaimed, since all of you disapprove of my normal coping methods. I have no intention of relapsing once I leave, and after-” His throat closes and he has to swallow several times before he can continue. “ _After_ , I’m sure you can understand if I’ve sworn off Doms. I’ll manage.”

            Lestrade tilts his head, face contorted in something between pain and sympathy, and Sherlock cannot take this anymore.

            “But this isn’t why I’m here today,” he says pointedly. “The case?”

            Lestrade sighs, but leaves it. “The case,” he confirms, and starts to lead Sherlock back towards the interrogation rooms. “We did find something interesting when we looked up the latest victim- Bradley, his name was. He was putting paperwork through to get his role marker changed.”

            Sherlock perks up at that. “ _Really?_ Psychological reason stated, or…?”

            “No, which is why it was being stalled. He’d put the petition through a few months ago, but couldn’t give a good reason for the change.” Lestrade shrugs. “Could be a kink. Happens sometimes.”

            Sherlock dismisses that outright. “Too much of a coincidence. Mention it when you talk to the family. Did you find a registered partner?”

            Lestrade shakes his head. “Even finding his family was a pain. Guess they’ve been estranged for a while- sister was all torn up that she hadn’t spoken to him in ages and now he’s gone. Guilt, d’you think?”

            Sherlock shrugs. “Hard to predict sentiment. Ask about feuds they might have had. If they follow the pattern of ideology and the desire for a marker change was legitimate, that might get us something useful.”

            They’ve reached the interrogation rooms, where Sally is waiting for them along with three family members: an older couple that Sherlock assumes are the parents, and a young woman who is probably the sister Lestrade had mentioned. John is talking with them quietly (Sherlock notes with approval the lack of angry voices or demands to be left alone; John has fallen into his new role rather well). The Chief’s gone off somewhere, but Sherlock knows better than to ask if he can join them for the questioning. He settles for clearing his throat.

            “We’re ready to start,” he says. John looks over at him, a look of mild irritation on his face (does he expect Sherlock to coddle them, too? Even after one day he must know that’s not on), but it’s gone in an instant and then he’s smiling _again,_ stepping back so Lestrade can usher the parents into the room. Sally follows them in, and then they’re alone. Well, almost alone, but the sister is leaning up against the far wall and obviously not paying attention to anything around her, so Sherlock ignores her for the moment and narrows his attention in on the parents.

            “You all right?”

            John’s voice is a distraction, the question irrelevant. Sherlock mutters a quick “fine” as he gleans what information he can: late sixties or early seventies, _conservatively dressed_. Both look properly upset by the death of their son, but no sign of recent tears. Much less rattled than the sister, who’s starting to sniffle quietly. Hm.

            “Just asking ‘cause you seem tense. What did he say to you?”

            “I’m _working_ , John,” Sherlock replies curtly. “I don’t have time for small talk.”

            John shuts up after that, which is _marvellous_. The family is immediately and obviously less so.

            “We hadn’t seen Stephen for almost a year before we got the news,” the mother (a Domme) tells Lestrade. “We were hoping he’d come back on his own once he’d realised his mistake, but… unfortunately that didn’t happen.”

            “And what mistake was that?” Sally asks.

            “Well, his girlfriend, of course.” The mother waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Is there any other mistake young men make?” She pauses, eyes downcast, then sighs. “Stephen was such a good boy. So confident. And then that woman came into his life and I, well, I had to put my foot down.”

            “He wouldn’t hear of leaving her,” the father adds. “Had a bloody awful row and then he just packed up and left. D’you know if he was still with her, when he was killed?”

            “He didn’t have a registered partner,” Lestrade replies. He hesitates for a moment, glancing at Sherlock through the window, then presses on. “He… _was_ trying to push through a role marker change, though. Would you two know anything about that?”

            The father’s eyes close heavily and the mother’s face turns red.

            “My son,” she says in a low voice, “would never go against his nature. If he has, then it’s entirely that woman’s fault.”

            “I see.” Lestrade looks distinctly uncomfortable, but he presses on. “So Stephen never talked about his identity with you, even before he left?”

            “No.” The mother crosses her arms. “He was a perfectly normal boy until he started dating Evie, or Eva, or whatever her name was. Are you going to bring her in for questioning?”

            “Can you give us a last name?” Lestrade asks. _Or even a first name,_ Sherlock can practically see him thinking.

            Predictably, the woman shakes her head, but at least she has the grace to look ashamed about it. “I never bothered to learn her name. I’d taken it for granted that he would leave her immediately. I certainly don’t have any pictures of her.”

            Lestrade sighs and closes his notebook. “All right, then. Thank you for your time, Mr and Mrs Bradley. We’ll let you know if we learn anything else.”

            Sherlock takes a few steps away from the window and begins to pace, hands in front of his mouth. The family has so far been almost entirely unhelpful, though there were several tantalising bits he needs to analyse. He’s glad to see that the conservative streak has continued- they can use that as a potential marker now. Also, their word choice is rattling something in the back of his mind. If he could only-

            “Can I help now?”

            Damn. He glances over at John, who’s staring at him expectantly with his arms crossed over his chest.

            “I know you probably invited me to just watch,” John continues when Sherlock doesn’t respond, “but I’m here now, and I might actually be competent enough to help, so could I try?”

            Sherlock studies him for a moment. John’s eyes are alert, his posture straight (his limp seems to be completely out of his mind, causing a warm glow of pride in Sherlock’s stomach); he’s not bored and looking for something to do. He truly wants to help. The fact that he’s asking and not simply demanding clinches the deal and Sherlock strides over to grab Lestrade’s arm before he can re-enter the interrogation room with Sally and the daughter.

            “Do you have the crime scene photographs?” he asks. “John wants to see.”

            Lestrade’s eyebrows raise just the slightest amount, but Sherlock keeps his face inscrutable and after a few seconds Lestrade leaves it and calls in to Sally to bring him the folder.

            “Any ideas?” he asks quietly. “They didn’t give us much.”

            “It was enough,” Sherlock replies. He takes the folder from Sally and rummages through it, retrieving assorted photographs from the five scenes and passing them to John. “We’ve confirmed the family ideology and the reason for the estrangement. It’s almost painfully obvious how much more the sister cares about his death than the parents; overwrought, still crying even now. They had a close relationship- perhaps she was even his confidante. We also know that there must have been a break in family ideology. Did you notice the behaviour of the mother? She’s very traditionally Dominant, but that was not the calm assurance of being the head of a cohesive family; she’s clinging to what power she has left because her children are leaving her, diverting from her expectations. The sister must be sympathetic to Stephen, otherwise why would she be so upset?” He trails off and presses his fingers to his temples in frustration. “There’s something else, but I can’t figure it out. Something about what the parents were saying, it gave something away-”

            “Sherlock…” John interrupts him for the second time in five minutes and Sherlock is on the verge of shouting, he really is, but when he turns around to see John’s expression—eyes wide, face a bit pale—the anger slips his mind. “I’ve seen this before.”

            Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “What?”

            “Not this exact picture,” John amends hurriedly, “but the wounds. I’ve seen this pattern before, the blade marks and everything.”

            “Where?” Lestrade asks. Sally’s come over to stand at the door to the interrogation room and is watching them intently.

            “At the hospital. I’m sub trauma, generally, but there was an emergency call and our skills are still helpful for… play wounds.” John hesitates—afraid he’s breached some regulation about secrecy, no doubt, but it hardly matters now. The last piece has fallen into place.

            “Gay clubs,” Sherlock breathes. Oh, but it was so _obvious_ ; he can see it now! “ _Girlfriend,_ that was the word, I _knew_ it meant something!”

            John stares at him as if he’s said something vulgar and he isn’t sure whether to smile or be offended. Lestrade just frowns. “What’s ‘girlfriend’ matter? Everyone says that.”

            “Everyone says that _now,_ ” Sherlock corrects him. “It’s an innocuous word these days, owing to the rise of switch and gay freedoms and political correctness, but these people, they learned to use it as a pejorative, a way to differentiate those with normal sexualities from deviants. Stephen must have started dating a female Dominant, which is what caused the rupture with his family.” Sherlock allows himself a half-smile, relishing in the pleasure of a puzzle solved. “Ask his sister. See if I’m wrong.”

            Lestrade scrubs a hand through his hair again and glances back into the room with the sister; for all that they’ve been dawdling outside, she hasn’t even looked up from her hands, twisted in her lap. He motions at Sally to go back in and sit with her, then faces John and Sherlock again.

            “Are any of the victims still alive?” he asks John. “If we could question them-”

            “They are,” John says, “but I don’t know if they’d want to talk to you. We tried to convince them to press charges- they wouldn’t hear of it. They were too scared. Whoever attacked them did a number on them psychologically.” The fingers of his left hand flex as he speaks. “I’ll get you in contact with the hospital, though, so they can work with you once you’ve gotten the warrants.”

            Lestrade murmurs a quiet thank you and then turns to Sherlock.

            “I think we can handle it from here,” he says. “Thanks for the help, as usual, and I promise I’ll text you if we need you again. You can head home now, if you like.”

            Sherlock nods (not even bothering to point out that they _will_ need him again, that’s what always happens when they get serial killers), then gestures for John to follow him as he heads towards the lifts. There is a strange floating feeling in his stomach and he feels lightheaded. It’s not an unpleasant feeling; he generally feels this way, to a lesser extent, after he’s solved a case. He hasn’t actually solved anything this time, no, but he did have a new audience, and John had reacted wonderfully.

            His chest feels tight and warm and restless energy pulses through his veins but he keeps himself still and lets the tingles persist under his skin. He’s so happy that things managed to be interesting during John’s visit, and even more so that John was able to contribute to the case. There is no trace of his limp at the moment, and the knowledge that it was Sherlock’s doing, that he managed to distract John from his pain (psychosomatic though it may be), is giving him a high almost akin to the lower levels of subspace. He feels as if someone is tenderly massaging his frontal lobes. He feels marvellous.

            Their ride down to the ground floor is quiet, but companionably so. They pass by the receptionist who gives them a smile, and then they are outside once more in the chilly bustle of London.

            Suddenly, Sherlock does not want John to leave. It’s not even two o’clock, and they’ve barely gotten to talk to each other. He flips through a list of potential activities, trying to figure out what would convince John to stay. Further investigating is out, at least for now; he could, in theory, go looking for various potential clubs, but he doubts John would be very interested and besides, it’s nowhere near opening time yet so the amount of information he could gather would be negligible at best. (Though, the idea of John coming on investigations in the future is a pleasant one. He will have to ask later.)

            John turns to him, and smiles (how many smiles has John given him today? It seems to be his default reaction, and yet it still causes something to pull in Sherlock’s chest every time), and Sherlock desperately fishes for something to say that will delay John’s goodbye at least a few more minutes.

            “Did you have a good time?” he asks, the unfamiliar words strange on his tongue. John seems a bit surprised as well (is Sherlock really so predictable?), but then he starts talking and Sherlock can’t quite believe what he hears.

            “Did I have a good time?” John repeats, incredulous. “Of course I did- it’s like something out of a movie, and it’s your _job_. It’s brilliant.”

            Sherlock blinks once, twice. “Really?”

            “Absolutely,” John insists. “I’ve seen you do it twice now and I still can’t believe how you can take things that other people don’t even notice and put it all together like that. You could work on your tact, you know, but really, it was extraordinary.”

            The urge from the night before is resurfacing, the one that demands that Sherlock bend his knees and offer his neck. It’s a bit frightening in its intensity, but Sherlock squashes it down and reroutes the desire into something normal, something safe.

            “Dinner?” he offers, before his courage or his self-control can fail him. “I know a good Italian place on Broadwick Street, if you're interested.”

            John doesn’t respond for a few moments. His eyes flick over Sherlock’s face—trying to gauge how in control of himself he is, no doubt. The scrutiny lasts long enough that a hot flush starts to creep up the back of Sherlock’s neck and he’s half tempted to remove the offer, but then John’s lips part into a grin that makes all of his other smiles seem like frowns in comparison.

            “I’d like that,” John replies at last, and Sherlock feels his own lips twitch upwards into a shy, pleased smile that he hasn’t remembered being on his face in a long, long time. “Tonight?”

            “I’ll text you,” Sherlock promises, and John nods.

            “Sounds like a plan, then,” he says, and holds out his hand. They shake, and then John is turning and walking off towards the Tube stop, stride long and confident. Sherlock watches him, stomach fluttering, until he’s out of sight.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so we didn't actually get to dinner this chapter. The Sherlock/Molly scene ended up growing very much out of control and I found out some new things about Sherlock and his motivations that I hadn't been expecting. Therefore, I decided that I would take some time and plan out where things are going emotionally for him and John and cut off the chapter where it was. So, it may be a bit shorter than you guys are used to, but hey, we also get two chapters in one month, which is pathetically rare for me. :P I hope you guys enjoy it.
> 
> There are references to past non-con in this chapter, and it may be possible to interpret some things that happen as dub-con. I hope that things make sense, but I do tend to hint at things and be vague, so if you need clarification, totally ask questions.

            A date. He’s just accepted a _date_ , from an already-claimed submissive. What was he _thinking?_

            John paces the length of the flat, hands alternately combing through his hair and gripping the back of his neck. It’s stereotypically submissive behaviour, but he thinks it’s justified, considering that Molly is going to kill him. She _had_ said to let Sherlock do whatever he wanted, true, but surely she’d only expected him to do something strictly friendly: an invitation to lunch, maybe, or a drink down the pub. Even coffee could be considered platonic these days, but dinner? Strictly the realm of the date, and John had walked right into it without a second thought.

            The right thing, the _respectful_ thing to do would be to cancel and apologise to Molly. Explain to her that he wasn’t trying to steal her sub or disrespect her, but he’d had such an amazing time and when Sherlock had invited him-

            No. He can’t pin this on Sherlock, and he can’t cancel either. He remembers the smile on Sherlock’s face, tiny and shy as if he were a lovestruck uni kid rather than an almost middle-aged submissive _._ Getting rejected now would ruin the fragile relationship growing between them, John knows. He also knows, with a conviction so fiery it makes him feel ashamed, that he definitely does _not_ want that to happen.

            So what to do?

            John turns to face the window, rubbing a hand through his hair yet again. Calling Molly would probably be his best bet, regardless. She can at least give him direction, since she’s the one in control here.

            He takes out his mobile and dials her number, hoping that Sherlock hasn’t yet gotten home. If he’s going to get a dressing-down, he’d rather it not be in front of a submissive; he doesn’t think his tattered pride could take it.

            “John?” Molly sounds a bit surprised when she answers the phone. “Is everything okay?”

            “What? Yeah, everything’s fine.” He’s about to ask her why she immediately assumes things aren’t, but then shuts his mouth. Considering Sherlock’s job, that’s a valid question. He hesitates, unsure how to bring up his reason for calling, and the line goes quiet.

            “Are you two still out?” Molly asks. John shakes his head, even though she can’t see it, and begins to pace again.

            “No, I left him a little bit ago. He cleared things up at Scotland Yard… rather quickly.”

            “Yes, he does that.” There’s a smile in Molly’s voice, but it quickly fades as she asks her next question. “So what’s the matter? Why are you calling?”

            And here it is. John’s cheeks heat and he has to force himself to continue breathing calmly. God, isn’t he just an amazing specimen of Dominant?

            “I just wanted to ask,” he starts, then pauses. “I mean, Sherlock, he-”

            “Did he say something awful to you?” Molly’s voice is sharp, and John quickly reassures her.

            “No, no, nothing like that. He-” _Get it out, Watson._ “He asked me to go to dinner with him tonight.”

            John’s shoulders grow tauter with each second of silence over the line as he waits for what Molly has to say to him. At least Sherlock won’t be there to hear.

            “That’s… that’s marvellous.” Molly sounds as if she can’t quite believe her ears. “I didn’t think he would actually… Oh, John, thank you- you did say yes, didn’t you?”

            “Of course I did, I wasn’t thinking- thank me?” There is pressure building between John’s brows and he rubs at the bridge of his nose ineffectually. “What are you thanking me for? You’ve claimed him, I should have remembered that.”

            Molly’s quiet for a moment. “He still hasn’t told you, has he?”

            “Told me what?” John’s stomach gives a little flip. “He is still yours, isn’t he? You both told me this morning-”

            “John…” Molly hesitates again, and John can picture her looking over her shoulder to make sure that she’s alone before she continues. “Sherlock… _is_ mine, but it’s not in the way that you’re thinking. He’s my… job, at the moment.”

            “Your job,” John repeats. “What does that mean?”

            “That’s the type of Domme I am,” Molly says quietly. “I could never just choose one sub; I’ve always felt like I have to help them all. So… these days I take them in. I help them, and then I let them go. It’s not a very common thing to do, but… it makes me feel like I’m doing more good than if I just settled down with one forever.”

            John tilts his head as he processes this new information. It makes sense, in a way. Molly is a very loving person, and he can definitely picture her coaxing a timid submissive out of their shell and helping them grow. With Sherlock, while at first glance it seems to be more an issue of reining him in, John remembers his behaviour when he was dropping and his conviction that Molly was going to leave him. How he’d offered his neck to a Dom he’d just met. He purses his lips.

            “You know I can’t tell you why he’s with me,” Molly says, “and I know you wouldn’t ask. But… that’s why I’m happy he’s asked you out. I thought we were going to go through the six months and not have him any better than he was when he got here, but it’s only been a month and he’s already doing this.”

            “He only just met me last night,” John replies weakly. He feels a bit breathless; what could he possibly have done in so short a time to make a sub as distrustful and prickly as Sherlock be interested in him? “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

            “I don’t know,” Molly sighs, “but if it had to be anyone, John, I’m glad it was you. I trust you, and it looks like Sherlock does, too.”

            John huffs out a laugh. “Don’t assume that yet. We’ve still got to get through dinner.” Maybe they’re both just misinterpreting. Maybe Sherlock was just pleased that John could help in some small way with the case today and is extending the offer to be polite. They’ll probably just spend the meal talking about work and then once John has exhausted his usefulness, Sherlock will forget about him again. But then… why would he have smiled that way?

            “So you do like him?” Molly’s voice snaps John out of his musings. Her tone is a bit harder this time, but John doesn’t take offense. She’s just looking out for her sub. “You’re not just doing this because I told you to let him do as he likes?”

            “No,” John says firmly. “Honestly, that wasn’t even on my mind when he asked. I just… He was brilliant, absolutely brilliant, and…” His fingers fiddle awkwardly with the seam of his trousers. “I was sort of wanting to ask him the same thing.”

            “Great.” Molly’s smile is wide enough that John can hear it in her voice. “I hope you two have fun tonight. Make sure he eats.”

            John blinks a few times. “But… he’s the one who’s asked me to dinner.”

            “Doesn’t mean he’ll eat,” Molly replies. “He gets like that. But don’t worry, really. Just treat him with respect and it’ll all be fine.” Her voice suddenly turns sad. “That’s all he wants.”

            “I will,” John promises. “Talk to you soon, Molly.”

            “Goodbye, John.”

            John hangs up the phone and sinks heavily into his armchair. So he’s gotten the go-ahead to have dinner with Sherlock. He can’t lie to himself; he is rather pleased and a bit excited, but now there’s a pressure that wasn’t there before hanging over his head. Except there shouldn’t be; Sherlock isn’t a delicate flower. He’ll be fine if John makes a misstep or two tonight. John would just… prefer not to, knowing what he knows now.

            Well, there’s no use sitting around worrying about it. John pulls himself to his feet and heads back to the bedroom to pick out something suitable for a date. He can use this time to plan. God knows he’ll need to.

* * *

 

            _He said yes_. The thought ricochets around Sherlock’s brain like a stray bullet and it takes a fair amount of self-control to restrict extraneous motion to his hands, buried deep inside his pockets where they tap out sixteenth notes in four-four time. He knows the excitement is a bit ridiculous for a man of his age, yet he cannot tamp it down. John has agreed to see him again, to _have dinner_ with him, even after seeing him exhibit behaviours that have earned him the title of sociopath from practically everyone else he knows, and the low-burning pleasure that has diffused itself beneath his skin as a result is something he is in no hurry to get rid of.

            There is something special about John Watson that he cannot quite put his finger on. He is a gentle ex-soldier, an intelligent doctor, and a kind, forgiving Dom who (as far as Sherlock has seen) does not let his dynamic rule his behaviour. Most other Doms Sherlock has known—most notably his brother and the handful he has played with over the years—have never been shy about giving orders or demanding that things be done their way. John and Molly are both exceptions to this; both have proved willing to interact with him on his own terms, allowed him to take control of their relationships, and been flexible enough to tolerate his erratic behaviour. Molly’s actions do not surprise him; she is simply doing her job. John, on the other hand, is complex, a mystery; an unknown quantity, yet somehow safe.

_“I’ve heard a lot about you. My name’s Sebastian.”_

_A warm, confident handshake at noon in the dining hall. Sharp blue eyes and a wide, hungry smile. Ambitious. Interesting._

_A proposition in the library at three in the afternoon, head held high but colour staining his cheeks. A quirk of the lips, narrowed eyes. Yes, why not?_

_A quiet admission made at two in the morning beneath the covers, head turned away in shame. Strong fingers under his chin, forcing eye contact. It’s fine. They’ll negotiate it. Disbelief and happiness mix in equal measure but his eyes aren’t lying, and for the first time hope fills his chest. Someone understands._

_A hard hand on his shoulder as they’re out at the pub, eleven o’clock at night. Fingers stroke the stiff new leather of his collar. Kneel. There are people around. You promised. Kneel._

            Sherlock’s fingers continue to flex and he thrusts a hand up for a taxi. He’ll stop by Angelo’s on the way home—he needs to wear off some of this energy before Molly sees him. (The thought of Molly brings an uncomfortable tension to the back of his neck but he pushes it firmly out of mind without studying it. He doesn’t have time for that now.)

            Angelo is happy to see him; Sherlock hasn’t come to visit since he moved in with Molly, and there is apparently no end to the list of “interesting” and “suspicious” characters that have passed through the restaurant in his absence. Sherlock promises to look at them and denies five offers of food from the Italian Dom before he finally manages to wrest back control of the conversation.

            “I’m here to make reservations,” he says politely, if firmly. Angelo’s… sociability can be tiring sometimes, but he’s always been a loyal ally and considerate of Sherlock at his worst, so Sherlock treats him with as much respect as he can. “For myself and a friend, tonight. At seven, preferably.”

            Angelo gives him a knowing smile as he marks it down on his pad. “It will be done. Who’s the lucky man tonight, eh? Dom, sub, neither?”

            Angelo has always been both very observant and very accepting. Two of the many reasons why Sherlock likes him so very much. “Dom. He’s an army doctor, and reasonably intelligent.”

            “Good, good.” Without much warning, Angelo claps both of his hands down on Sherlock’s shoulders and looks him straight in the eye; Sherlock’s used to it, so he doesn’t flinch, but even after all this time the much freer Italian style of Dominating still makes him slightly uncomfortable and his shoulders tense. “You have been alone for so long, Sherlock. This will be good for you.”

            “One would hope,” Sherlock replies, and lowers his head slightly. “I really do need to get home and prepare, though, so if you wouldn’t mind…?”

            “Ah, yes, of course.” Angelo removes his hands with a flourish and gestures towards the door. “I will see you at seven and I will cook for you myself. Best wishes.”

            “Thank you, Angelo.” Sherlock dips his head again and then exits the restaurant. The warmth in his chest has descended into nausea, eating away at his gut, and he takes several deep breaths of the cooling afternoon air to ease his stomach. The leather of his collar is uncomfortably tight around his throat and he tugs at it half-heartedly. Perhaps he ought not wear it out with John tonight. It must be bad etiquette to wear another Dom’s collar when one is on a date. His fingers brush against the buckle, then pause. He’ll let Molly be the one to take it off. He’ll show her at least that much respect before he betrays her.

            Sherlock tugs his scarf back into place over the collar and strides out in search of a taxi, pounding out his tension through his heels.

- 

            Molly is sprawled across the couch when he enters the flat, watching some sort of nature documentary play on the television. Sherlock catches the word _penguin_ and promptly tunes it out.

            “Welcome home, pet,” Molly calls. “Did you have a good day?”

            Sherlock can’t bring himself to respond, afraid that if he opens his mouth he’s going to vomit. He slowly unwinds the scarf from his neck and tucks it into a pocket of his coat, then hangs the whole thing on the back of the door. The TV goes mute.

            “Pet?” The fabric of the couch rustles as Molly sits up to look at him. “What happened?”

            Sherlock shakes his head. He’s still wearing his gloves. He tugs them off with shaking hands and shoves them into the same pocket as the scarf. His skin feels cold.

            “Pet.” Molly stands and walks over to him. Sherlock can practically see her going through a checklist in her head. _Injured?_ No marks, no torn clothing, no blood. _Mycroft?_ He’d be angry and spewing vitriol, not withdrawn. Same if he’d been irritated by the officers at Scotland Yard. Suddenly, her faces softens, and Sherlock’s stomach roils once more.

            “Come sit down.” She turns and walks back to the couch, obviously expecting him to follow. Sherlock does, after a few seconds, and sinks down onto the cushions beside her. He fidgets for a moment, then brings up his knees so he can wrap his arms around them. For once, Molly doesn’t scold him about his shoes on the furniture.

            “John called me,” she finally says after a few minutes of silence. “He told me that you invited him out for dinner. Did you?”

            Sherlock nods. His fingernails dig into his calves through the fabric of his trousers, but he barely feels it.

            “Pet,” Molly says seriously, “John is a colleague, and a friend of mine. I trust him as a doctor and as a person, and I also trust him with you as a Dom. But-” and here she puts a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, pressing on his vertebrae in a way that makes him shiver, “if you tell me that you don’t want to do this, or that John made you think that you wanted this and you don’t, I’ll put a stop to it right now.” She pauses to let the words sink in but Sherlock doesn’t move or lift his gaze from his knees. “Tell me, was this your idea, or John’s?”

            “…Mine,” Sherlock murmurs. Molly’s fingers tangle in the curls at the base of his neck and a tingle of pleasure spreads across Sherlock’s scalp.

            “Good,” Molly says. “So if you wanted to ask him on a date, why are you nervous now? Did something happen?”

            Sherlock makes a disgusted sound deep in his throat and digs his chin into his knees. “Not today.”

            Molly’s ensuing silence is heavy on his ears. Sherlock lets it go on for eight seconds, then shakes off the hand that has gone still in his hair and pushes himself off the couch.

            “Forget it,” he snaps. “Forget I said anything, just call John and tell him I’m not coming tonight because I’m completely unable to handle myself when a Dom shows even the _slightest_ interest-”

            “Kneel.”

            The command crackles through the air like electricity, arresting Sherlock mid-step. He breathes in slowly, deeply, and clenches his fists. “No.”

            “ _Get on your knees._ ” Sherlock has never heard Molly use this voice, not even when he’d tried running away from her that first weekend. Then she’d been perfectly calm, at ease as if an escaped sub was the easiest infraction she’d had to deal with in her experience of rehabilitation. Now she sounds almost dangerous, and a prickle of fear radiates down Sherlock’s spine.

            _You were waiting for this to happen. Don’t be so disappointed._

            He can’t quite tell it’s Mycroft’s voice or his own that’s taunting him.

            Slowly, Sherlock lowers himself to one knee, then the other, ignoring the pinch from the hard wood floor. He leans forward and rests his weight on his hands, head down so he doesn’t have to look at Molly, then closes his eyes.

            “Thank you.” It’s not praise, nowhere near it. Sherlock certainly doesn’t deserve it. He hears Molly take a step forward and his shoulders flinch upwards defensively; she taps them and he forces them back down, digging his fingers into the floorboards.

            “You said you can’t handle yourself,” Molly continues. She pulls away from Sherlock and begins to circle him with small, measured steps. “That’s fine. That’s my job, and I’m going to handle you now whether you want me to or not, because you’ve broken the rules.”

            Sherlock doesn’t respond. _You’re not allowed to run away anymore._ Did Molly seriously expect him to be able to obey that? _Everything I know about you. You were getting to a dark place, pet._ Petite fingers tangle in his hair, scattering his thoughts, and he tenses, waiting for the blow. Unfortunately, without his sight he’s unsure where it’s going to land, or whether it’s going to be a slap or a punch or a scratch. It could even be a kick, and his shoulders start hunching upwards again in an attempt to protect his jaw.

            “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

            That startles him into looking at her, eyes wide. “ _What?_ ” Immediately Molly’s fingers yank at his curls, drawing an involuntary hiss from his throat.

            “ _Respect_ , Sherlock. You will show me some.” Her grip relaxes slightly, but she’s still holding on with enough force to keep him uncomfortable. “Now, what has John done to make you so frightened of going to dinner with him? Were you lying to me earlier when you said it was your idea?”

            “ _No_ ,” Sherlock insists, and grits his teeth when Molly tugs at his hair again. “No, Mistress, I didn’t lie to you and John has done nothing wrong. The problem-” He cuts himself off, biting his lip fiercely. He’s not going to say it.

            “Yes, Sherlock?” Molly’s voice is still hard, but her fingers have loosened and are starting to wind around tendrils of his hair and the sensation is so distracting that Sherlock can’t think straight. He tries to pull his head away but Molly’s hand follows and he lets out a whine.

            “The problem,” he repeats, grasping for an explanation that will work, that will make Mistress let go of him, “the… I-”

            “ _Tell me._ ”

            “I’m supposed to _stay_ ,” Sherlock protests blindly. That’s not quite it, not everything, but it’s close enough, it has to be. “You told me I was to stay with you for six months. I can’t leave yet.”

            “Why not?” Mistress sounds gentle now, and she has finally stopped tormenting Sherlock’s scalp, and he is so damnably _grateful_ for those two things that the dam breaks and he stumbles forward, pressing his face against her knees as the secrets and ugly thoughts he’s held bottled up for so long spill forth from his mouth.

            “I can’t because it’ll _happen_ again,” he insists, breath starting to come in shallow pants that force his voice upwards in pitch, “and I won’t be able to do anything about it when it does. That’s what they do- it’s always fine at the beginning, they’re kind, they care about you, they won’t do anything you won’t like, and then they start changing their minds.” His voice turns mocking as he spits out the words. “No, sorry, I can’t pet you today, but do you have time for a handjob? Doing it myself just isn’t cutting it anymore.” He lets out a noise somewhere between a scoff and a sob but keeps going. His fists are clenched so tight he can feel his nails tearing into his palms, the stretched skin over his knuckles and tendons white with pressure. “And then you let them because you need their orders, have been trained to crave them, and you can’t leave because no one else will take you except that’s a _lie_ because there’s always someone else, always someone who’s willing to hurt you to get their own fix, and what if I’m _wrong?_ ”

            Suddenly Mistress’ arms are around him and it’s too much, too close, and he tries to pull away but she won’t let him and Sherlock goes limp, trying to regain control over his breathing and smother the soft, pained noises that keep tearing themselves out of his throat.

            “Shh, pet.” Mistress’ hand strokes firmly up and down his back, trying to soothe him. “It’s all right, you were so good to tell me about what was worrying you. So good, and so brave.”

            The praise washes over him and slowly the trembling begins to abate. His breath stops catching every few moments and he can finally take a deep breath, and then another, and soon he’s leaning into Mistress’ shoulder, feeling boneless and cleansed.

            “Better?” Mistress asks. Sherlock nods. He’s not, not completely; he’d never intended to tell her those things and he certainly doesn’t want to talk about them. Nevertheless, a tiny amount of tension has left him and the waves of subspace are lapping at the edge of his mind and he does feel a bit calmer than when he’d first entered the flat.

            “Good.” Mistress pulls back a little and tugs at his arm. “Let’s get you to your bed, and then we can talk.”

            “Not the bed,” Sherlock objects. “Don’t want to fall asleep. Dinner’s at seven.”

            “The couch, then. Up you get.” Together, they manage to get Sherlock comfortable on the couch with his head on a pillow in Mistress’ lap.

            “Now then,” Mistress says, laying her hands carefully on the back of Sherlock’s neck, “I’m going to talk about what you said, one thing at a time. I want you to listen, and I would like it very much if you would learn from what I tell you. Would you like me to pet you while I talk?”

            Sherlock sighs and shifts his head on the pillow. “Yes, Mistress.”

            “Good.” Mistress’s fingers slowly begin to knead against the muscles on either side of his collar, smoothing away the knots there. She waits until Sherlock’s breath has settled into an easy, slow rhythm before she continues.

            “The first and most important thing that you have to remember, pet,” she says, “is that you never have to do anything you don’t want to do. I never want you to feel trapped inside a contract where you’re afraid and miserable. You can always negotiate for what you want or don’t want, and you can always leave the relationship if things are making you uncomfortable. If it makes you feel safer, you can include a statement in the contract saying what is automatic grounds for an annulment. Do you understand?”

            Sherlock rolls his shoulders, unwilling to say either yes or no. He understands the sentiment perfectly well, but in his experience it’s never been something easily put into practice. Besides, he can hardly imagine leaving a relationship simply due to a breach of contract. If that were true, most relationships wouldn’t last two months.

            _I told you, in no uncertain terms, that no intercourse would-_

_Oh, it was hardly ‘intercourse.’ Relax. You wanted it enough at the time._

            “I’m going to take that as a no, pet.”

            Sherlock grits his teeth but remains silent. Mistress sighs above him.

            “What part of it don’t you understand? I know that you’ve had awful luck with Doms, but most of us will listen if you tell us you don’t want to do something. If it’s the right person for you, it won’t make them love you any less.”

            “…But it makes them stay.”

            Mistress is quiet for a moment, then moves one of her hands to stroke gently at his cheekbone. Sherlock closes his eyes. “If they’re not good for you, you shouldn’t want them to stay. There’s always someone else, pet. You don’t have to force yourself to be with someone if they hurt you.”

            _The flat is tiny, silent, and empty. His thoughts are too loud. His arm hurts._

            Sherlock absentmindedly brushes a hand over the crook of his elbow. “We’ve already established that being alone is not good for me.”

            “Because you don’t have any coping strategies,” Mistress chides him. “Or at least not any good ones. There are lots of subs and Doms out there without partners, pet, but they manage because they’ve learned how to take care of their needs.”

            “I was taking care of myself.”

            “You were hurting yourself,” Mistress corrects him sternly. “You were doing drugs and letting people take advantage of you. Your brother thought you needed help.”

            “Mycroft needs to learn how to keep his nose out of my business.”

            “Manners, pet,” Mistress reminds him. Sherlock says nothing and picks at a thread on the pillow. Mistress’ hands have stopped their massage on his neck, but he doesn’t particularly mind. In fact, he’d very much prefer to get up soon.

            “I’m not trying to say your fears aren’t important,” Mistress continues. “I know that you started coping the way you did because you felt you had to, and it worked for you, at least for a little while. But you’re smart, pet.” Sherlock snorts quietly in response but Mistress ignores him. “You’re very smart, and I know that you could learn other ways of dealing with being alone if you tried. So please don’t worry too much about whether or not things will work out with John. You can hope, and I’ll hope for you too, but you’ll be all right even if you don’t end up writing a contract together.”

            Sherlock murmurs something noncommittal and opens his eyes halfway. No one has ever appreciated his deductions the way John has, has ever called him _brilliant_ or _extraordinary_ before. Even Lestrade regards his abilities as a useful trick, or at best a set of skills that he needs to learn. He does enjoy teaching Lestrade, showing him how to observe, and could probably enjoy sharing the process with John someday, but John had simply _praised_ him, immediately, without any expectations attached. _That’s very impressive. Of course I had a good time._ The respect and devotion this act inspires in him is terrifying, more so when he remembers that he’s known the man for less than a day. “You said you trust him,” he says slowly. “How much?”

            “I trust that if he promises you something, he’ll keep his word.” Mistress slips a finger underneath his collar and tugs, emphasizing the point. “But if he doesn’t, you can always come back to me.”

            That gets Sherlock’s attention. He shifts to look up at her. “I can?”

            “Yes.”

            Sherlock narrows his eyes. “What if I were to go and live with him and wear his collar? Could I still come back?”

            “Pet,” Mistress says with a smile that is suddenly sad, “you’re my case right now. For five more months, you’re the only sub that I’m protecting. All my attention is on you.”

            “Oh.” Sherlock goes quiet again and resumes his curled up position on his side. This may be problematic. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate Mistress’ offer—six months is extraordinarily generous, especially considering he doesn’t have to be with her for the duration—but it’s forced him into a rather limited time window.

            John is a rare creature, and despite Sherlock’s current anxieties, he seems like a perfectly reasonable Dom. He even seems to like Sherlock, which is a rare enough occurrence in itself. If he passes up this chance, there’s no telling how long it will be before he finds another Dom he tolerates half as much. (In the privacy of his own mind, he tells himself that liking John this quickly is a good sign—it has to be—and firmly ignores the quieter voice murmuring _but I liked Sebastian._ )

            “Okay,” he says. At Mistress’ questioning hum, he rolls over onto his back so he can meet her eyes. “I’ll have dinner with John. Get a feel for… what he’s like.”

            A wide smile stretches across Mistress’ face and she leans down to place a delicate kiss on his forehead. Sherlock can’t help but wince slightly; it’s been a long time since anyone’s kissed him that way. Thankfully, Mistress doesn’t notice.

            “There’s my brave pet,” she whispers. “Go get ready. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. The monster. I do apologize for taking so long to get this out, but the scene literally would not die. I hope that you enjoy it- it's been a bit of an emotional roller coaster writing this.
> 
> Notes: I know that in canon, Angelo's is on Northumberland Street, but since I already messed up the address in a previous chapter, I continued with its location on Broadwick Street. I also decided to use pilot!Angelo instead of ASiP!Angelo- no real reason, his voice just came easier to me.

            It’s ten minutes to seven when John arrives at the restaurant. He hesitates on the doorstep for a moment, hand outstretched, then pulls back and pretends to study the menu in the window as he tugs futilely at the collar of his shirt. He’s changed into a red button-up shirt with a sleeveless grey cardigan on top- something a bit nicer than what he’d worn out to Scotland Yard. In the mirror he’d looked almost attractive, but now he’s feeling uncomfortably overdressed.

            _Relax,_ he orders himself sternly. _You got along perfectly well earlier when you were in a fucking jumper. Whatever’s got him interested isn’t your looks, so just focus on being confident. That’s what subs like, isn’t it? Confident Doms?_

            He scoffs in disgust at himself and glances up and down the street. There’s no sign of Sherlock. John slips his mobile out of his pocket to check his texts again, but there haven’t been any new ones since the two Sherlock had sent to him a few hours ago:

            _7 o’clock, 46 Broadwick Street. Don’t worry about clothes. Angelo keeps an informal environment. SH_

            And then the one that had arrived, unsigned, a minute later: _I look forward to seeing you again._ It’s only a small deviation from habit, but John can picture Sherlock hesitating over it, sending it unclaimed before he can think too much about it, and he rubs his thumb gently over the screen as a warm, tender feeling bubbles to life inside his chest.

            “You’re here to eat with Sherlock?”

            John startles at the unfamiliar voice and quickly shoves his mobile back in his pocket before looking up to see a man in an apron holding the door open for him.

            “Uh, yes. Hi.” John offers his hand for the man to shake. “Is he here yet?”

            “He told me he would be a few minutes late but I should seat you in his usual spot,” the man replies with a smile. “I am Angelo, and I will be cooking for you tonight.”

            “Ah.” John returns the smile as best he can; his stomach is a mess, but that’s probably not something one tells the chef before the meal. “Well, good to meet you.” He lets Angelo lead him into the restaurant and towards the charming booth by the front window. Despite its width, it seems rather intimate; there are tall wooden barriers at either end, and a candle is already burning cheerfully in the centre of the table.

            “Shall I start you off with any wine?” Angelo asks once John has settled himself, “Or will you be needing to stay clearheaded tonight?”

            An uncomfortable flush crawls across John’s cheeks. He’s heard, of course, about other countries having different boundaries and customs regarding the discussion of Domming and submitting in public, but he’s never really expected to be asked that sort of question, especially from a complete stranger. He clears his throat and shakes his head emphatically.

            “No, thank you, it’s fine. I mean—” he clears his throat again. _Stop making a fool of yourself._ “Just water, please.”

            Angelo smiles and inclines his head, then turns to go back into the kitchen. As soon as he’s gone, John sighs heavily and rubs at his forehead. _Perfect._ Sherlock isn’t even here yet and he’s already cocking things up. Angelo is so _obviously_ a Dom, and close to Sherlock besides; what if he thinks John isn’t fit to Dom his friend and tells Sherlock not to come? What if _Sherlock_ doesn’t think John is fit enough to Dom him? Or, worse, what if that’s why he’s interested? Because John can’t possibly be a threat?

            “John?”

            He lifts his head, forced-cheerful greeting on his lips before he’s realised who’s said his name; once he notices, his voice catches and dies in his throat and he stares, eyes wide, at Sherlock: he is collarless, dressed in tight black jeans that cling to his long legs and a silky blue dress shirt with the top two buttons undone to show off his pale neck and collarbone. His curls are artfully mussed, as if he’s either come right out of the shower or put product in them, and his eyes, narrowed with concern, are just barely outlined in black.

            “God,” John breathes before he can censor himself. He bites his lip as soon as he says it, unsure if the comment will be welcome, but Sherlock’s brow only furrows for a moment before his expression softens and John even fancies he can make out the hint of a blush on his cheeks as he sits down.

            “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I trust Angelo’s treating you well?”

            John chuckles, more out of relief than humour. “Yeah. A bit intimidating, but I don’t think it’s on purpose, so…” He shrugs. “Have you known him long?”

            Sherlock smirks. “For some time, yes. He’ll exaggerate if you ask, but suffice it to say he was a client of mine a few years back. He was very grateful for the service I provided, and has been a staunch ally ever since.”

            John wants to ask what he means by _ally_ , but Angelo chooses that moment to reappear and he catches himself, making a mental note to bring it up at a later time. He gets the feeling that the whole affair is rather personal anyway, and Sherlock doesn’t seem the type to be particularly interested in humiliation, considering that he doesn’t even like being acknowledged as a sub at work. (John will have to ask about that, too; he doesn’t mind if Sherlock has different needs in public, but if they’re going to move forward with this, he needs to know what those are.)

            Somehow Angelo has predicted Sherlock’s drink choice; along with John’s glass of plain water, he’s also brought one with a lemon wedge which he sets before Sherlock, along with a few packets of what appears to be sugar.

            “What will we be eating tonight?” he asks, taking out his pad. John purses his lips and glances at the untouched menu at his elbow.

            “I-”

            “He’ll have the fettuccini,” Sherlock interrupts as he rips open the first packet of sugar and dumps it into his glass. “With oil, not alfredo, if you can.”

            John is more surprised than insulted at the presumption, but quickly recovers. “What are you having?”

            Sherlock shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

            “You’re going to eat something.”

            There is a pause, wherein Sherlock stares at John, eyebrows raised. John doesn’t break the eye contact, and does his best not to blink. Molly had said Sherlock was to eat tonight, and frankly, John agrees. Though Sherlock looks absolutely fantastic in his form-fitting clothes, they also show off just how much weight he ought to gain.

            “Angel hair with tomato sauce,” Sherlock says at last, tilting his head down and away from John. “More sauce than pasta, please.”

            Angelo nods and takes the menu with a smile, then withdraws.

            “Thank you,” John says quietly once they’re alone again. “You don’t have to eat the whole plate when it comes. I know these places often give you a lot. I would like to see you eat maybe half, though, and then take the rest home for later if you like it.”

            Sherlock looks up at him again, head tilted and curious expression on his face. He says nothing, however, so John drums his fingers awkwardly on his lap and casts about for something to say.

            “What sorts of things do you like?” Sherlock asks abruptly. John opens his mouth, about to ask him what he means, but then pauses and leans back in his chair. Sherlock’s starting the dance. A bit early, but that’s not so surprising, given his general impatience. He lets himself take his time responding, sipping at his water as he evaluates Sherlock’s body language: eyes focused and engaged, torso leaning forward, but not far enough to “accidentally-deliberately” let John see down his shirt. Not flirting yet, then. Genuinely curious, if blunt.

            “You’ll have to be more specific,” he says casually, settling himself in the lower levels of Domspace. “In the bedroom, out of the bedroom?”

            Sherlock shrugs. “Either. And while you’re at it, what are your habits? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

            That startles John out of role and he sits up straighter in his seat. “Flatmates? But we’ve only just met.”

            “Twenty-four hours. That’s not so little time.” Sherlock gives a small, lopsided smile, and after a few seconds John can’t help but join in.

            “Could be worse,” he agrees, “though you do realise that’s a big commitment, moving in with someone.”

            “It’s also a quick way to determine compatibility.” Sherlock suddenly looks abashed and pours another packet of sugar into his water. “I’m sorry, that was presumptuous of me.”

            “It’s fine.” John traces a fingertip along the rim of his glass, weighing his next words carefully. “I’m not insulted by the presumption—it’s rather flattering, actually. And I’m fine with discussing interests with you. Both sorts of interests.” He lifts his gaze to look Sherlock in the eye and smiles, trying to dispel the self-conscious expression on his face. “In case you haven’t figured it out by now, I really do think you’re amazing.”

            Sherlock dips his head slightly at the compliment, and a warm tendril of pleasure curls in John’s chest. One of Sherlock’s hands rests on the table, not very far from his glass; John wants to touch it, rub his thumb over the delicate skin and feel the veins and the bones. He wonders if a massage would be enough to send Sherlock into subspace, or if he needs rougher sensations to let go. He wonders if he’ll be allowed to try.

            “But?” Sherlock prompts, and John’s cheeks heat up.

            “Right.” He looks down at his glass again, this time in embarrassment. “But… I also want to tell you that I’d rather take this slowly. Dates are fine. I’d love to go out with you to work again, if you’re comfortable with that. But if we’re going to be doing any scening, as a test run or whatever, I want it to be when we each have a place to retreat to if something goes wrong. Is that okay with you?”

            “Bad breakup?”

            John can’t help but stare at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry?”

            “Did your relationship with your last sub go poorly?” Sherlock asks again. “Hesitance to start a new romantic or sexual relationship often points to negative past experience.” His tone is very matter-of-fact, the same one he uses for his deductions, and John can feel something in his stomach clench hot and tight at the insinuation.

            _Relax. He’s just guessing, he does this for a living. You didn’t mind him deducing you when you first met. This is the same._

            “I assure you,” Sherlock continues, completely oblivious to the mounting tension in John’s shoulders and back, “whatever shortcomings she had, I won’t repeat them if you just tell me-”

            _No, it’s not._

            “She didn’t have any.” John’s voice comes out sharper than he intended, and Sherlock immediately falls silent. “She was _perfect_ , and she wanted to leave. I let her go, but…” He clenches his fists in his lap. “That was because I cared about her, and respected her enough to make her own decisions. Not because she had any _shortcomings._ ”

            Sherlock lowers his head and fixes his gaze on the table. “Forgive me,” he says quietly. “It was not my intention to insult you, or her.”

            “Well, you did,” John says hotly, fully aware that he’s being childish, not to mention irresponsible, but unable to bring himself to care. “Apologise. Properly.”

            Sherlock’s tongue darts out to lick his lips but he doesn’t move or speak for several moments, his shoulders barely rising and falling with each breath. Then, just as John’s about to call him out for defiance, his expression goes stony and he turns his head to present John with his cheek.

            “I’m sorry, sir.” His voice is flat, and that as much as his behaviour stops John’s anger cold. “Would you like to punish me?”

            “Hey.” John frowns and takes Sherlock’s chin gently in hand, trying to suppress the flare of pain in his chest when Sherlock flinches at his touch. “You’re not mine to punish yet. I just meant eye contact, maybe a title.”

            Sherlock studies him out of the corner of his eye. Probably deciding if he’s telling the truth, John realises, and suddenly he feels sick. He takes his hand away from Sherlock’s face and slides back a bit in his chair.

            “I’m sorry,” he says. “That was really… very inappropriate of me. You couldn’t have known what I meant, and I shouldn’t have let my temper get out of hand like that in the first place. I didn’t think.”

            Sherlock’s head tilts in confusion yet again. “It’s… fine,” he replies slowly. “I was disrespectful.”

            “That’s not a good reason for me to hurt you,” John says firmly. “Or even for me to make you think I was going to hurt you.” When Sherlock doesn’t respond, he huffs a dry, humourless laugh and looks out the window. He’s starting to get more and more of an inkling as to why Sherlock went to stay with Molly in the first place, and he’s not liking the developing mental image.

            “We’ve both messed up, and we’re both sorry, yes?” He glances back at Sherlock, who nods tightly, not meeting his eyes. “Good. Then shall we start over?” He waits for Sherlock to nod again before he goes on. “All right. I would love to discuss interests with you, Sherlock, provided you understand and respect my wishes to go slowly.”

            “I do,” Sherlock says quietly. “I will.”

            “Thank you.” John keeps his voice gentle; he doesn’t like seeing Sherlock this subdued. Had he frightened him that badly? God, if he messes up the chance of even having a friendship come out of this because of his bloody temper—stop. He can’t focus on himself right now. Sherlock is what matters, and right now, what he needs is reassurance.

            Before he can say or do anything else, however, the smell of pasta and warm sauce meets his nose, and he turns his head to see Angelo arriving with their plates.

            “Fettuccini with oil,” he says, setting John’s plate before him, “and angel hair with tomato.” Sherlock’s portion is a bit smaller than what is probably the norm; John’s not surprised, though, considering how well the two men seem to know each other.

            “Shall I bring anything else?” Angelo asks. He looks at Sherlock as he says it, but Sherlock shakes his head and offers a wan smile.

            “We’re fine, but thank you,” he replies. “The food looks wonderful, Angelo.”

            Angelo inclines his head. “Enjoy.” His smile to John is a bit more perfunctory, and then he is away again, attending to a different table.

            “God, he hates me, doesn’t he?” John asks quietly once Angelo is out of earshot. Sherlock shrugs as he takes out his silverware, laying his napkin on his lap.

            “Hardly. He’s simply learned to be over-vigilant when it comes to me. Partially my own doing, and partially due to the influence of Lestrade and my brother.” He wrinkles his nose. “He’ll be kinder if we come again.”

            “Brother?” John asks. “Is he like you?”

            “Worse.” Sherlock smirks, John laughs, and just like that, the air between them feels comfortable again. Still, it could be better, and then John gets an idea.

            “Wait.”

            Sherlock pauses, fork poised over his pasta. “What?”

            “Let me.” John reaches out to grasp the end of Sherlock’s fork and pulls it gently. “Can I?”

            “But—” Sherlock suddenly seems distressed. “Shouldn’t I be—”

            “Relax, Sherlock.” John puts just a touch of authority into his tone and is gratified when Sherlock subsides. He slides the fork out of Sherlock’s grip and, pulling the plate a bit closer to him, begins to wind some noodles around the tines. “Consider it the second half of my apology.” He finishes and then offers the food to Sherlock, holding his other hand beneath to catch the sauce if it drips. “Here.”

            Sherlock hesitates, gaze shifting between the food and John’s face, but that’s fine. He can have all the time he wants. He’s probably never had a Dom do this for him before; the last time John tried this with a sub, they’d been confused and uncertain, too. But expressing his nurturing side has always been just as important to John’s Dominance as being stern or commanding, and with a sub like Sherlock, he thinks the gesture could go a long way towards establishing trust.

            At last Sherlock opens his mouth to accept the food, a pale pink tinge marring his cheeks. John slides the fork in, careful to avoid hitting his teeth, and then pulls it out again.

            Sherlock can’t meet his eyes as he chews. “Really, John, I don’t think—”

            “Hush,” John interrupts. “Let me take care of you, just for a few minutes. I won’t feed you the whole thing.” He pauses. “Would you mind if I talked to you?”

            “Depends what about.” Sherlock quickly glances up (through his lashes, and isn’t _that_ a calculated move), but John doesn’t mind.

            “Don’t worry, I won’t try to put you under,” he reassures him. “I was just thinking we could talk about interests and limits, if you’d like. If you’re still interested.”

            “Of course I am,” Sherlock replies, affronted, and he sounds enough like his old self that John feels the last of his tension recede from his forehead and shoulders.

            “Thank you.” He twirls up another forkful of noodles and offers it to Sherlock, who takes it much more quickly this time. “Limits first, then.” God, but it’s been ages since he’s had to do this. “No permanent injury, no blood if we can help it; I know it happens sometimes, but I’m not going to be hurting you on purpose.”

            “What about punishments?” Sherlock asks right away. John looks at him.

            “What I do in my punishments is at my discretion,” he says calmly. “Sometimes they will involve pain and sometimes they won’t, but it’s never my goal to seriously hurt you. Unless you want that?”

            Sherlock hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head. “Not seriously, no.”

            “But non-seriously?” John checks. “Do you enjoy that?”

            “Sometimes,” Sherlock admits, but doesn’t elaborate. “What other limits?”

            “No roleplay,” John says, and feeds Sherlock another bite. “I’ve been a soldier and a doctor, so it feels a bit like… dirtying the uniform to bring that into the bedroom.” He leans back to examine Sherlock’s face. “Everything all right so far? Nothing you need that I’ve already shot down?”

            “No, s-” Sherlock pauses, then frowns. “What title would you prefer? Sir or Master?”

            Hearing Sherlock’s voice use any title at all (and knowing what sort of mindset he must be in if he’s wondering about them) is enough of a rush for John, but he takes a deep breath and does his best to centre himself.

            _You have control. He’s given you control._ And so easily, god. _Take care of it._

            “Don’t worry about it,” he says quietly. “You don’t need to use one with me yet. Do you have any limits you want to tell me about?”

            Sherlock doesn’t respond at first. Instead, he picks up his glass and takes a long drink, then studies it pensively. John doesn’t offer him any more food.

            “Not many,” Sherlock says at last. “I’d appreciate a lack of injuries, if only to keep this from impacting my work with Lestrade. I’d also prefer if things stayed hygienic. I’d rather not put my mouth—well.” He still won’t look John in the eye. “Without a barrier, anyway.”

            “That’s fine,” John says soothingly. “Perfectly reasonable.” That elicits a small smile from Sherlock, and John tentatively offers the handle of the fork back.

            “Thanks for letting me do that,” he continues, steering the conversation back into lighter territory. “It’s… been a while since I’ve had a sub around.”

            “I know.”

            John wants to be startled or insulted by the remark, but after this long with Sherlock, he can’t even find it within himself to be surprised.

            “That obvious, is it?”

            Sherlock opens his mouth then promptly shuts it again, grimacing. “Apologies, again. It’s… a hard habit to break.”

            “No, go ahead,” John encourages him. Part of it is morbid curiosity—what subtle tell is he giving off that to Sherlock means _single and desperate_?—but he also enjoys Sherlock’s deductions, and it’s an obviously important part of his life. He doesn’t want Sherlock holding back any part of his fascinating mind because he’s afraid that John will disapprove or get angry. “What did I do that told you that?”

            “It’s more of what you didn’t do,” Sherlock contradicts him. His eyes scan over John’s body, gathering evidence, and John resists the embarrassing urge to squirm. “When you’re focused, you’re a competent and attentive Dom, finely tuned to the needs and responses of your sub, or in this case, a potential one. However, you lost control when I inadvertently insulted your previous partner. At first glance that might point to a more recent breakup, since your emotions are still so strong, but if you were still used to Dominating a submissive on a regular basis, you would be more in practise with keeping a tight rein over your emotional responses. A Dom that cannot control themselves is seen as inadequate and undisciplined and will not hold a sub for long. Judging by the intensity of your response, you were heavily committed to your previous sub—you haven’t been home long enough for it to be simply a matter of relationship length—so obviously capable, just out of practise. About a month or so, am I wrong?”

            “A month and a half,” John says breathlessly. They haven’t even had a proper scene yet and Sherlock is already calling him _competent_ and _finely tuned._ “Do you mind if—” he swallows. It’s much too early, and normally he hates rushing things like this—if it goes wrong, if he’s misjudged, it’ll be ruined, and it’ll all be his fault—but he really, _really_ wants to, and now Sherlock is looking at him like he’s just started speaking Chinese and he can’t back out now. “—would you be all right if I… kissed you?”

            Sherlock’s eyes widen fractionally and for a tense moment John lingers on the edge of reclaiming his words, laughing them off and asking Sherlock to forget them. But then Sherlock is leaning forward, sliding along the bench towards John, and those thoughts are banished in favour of _oh god, yes, please._

            “It’s fine,” Sherlock murmurs, and he’s so close now that their knees knock under the table as John turns to face him head-on. “More than fine, actually.”

            That’s all the encouragement he needs. Gently, John raises a hand to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck and then leans in slowly, pausing when they are bare inches apart just in case he changes his mind. But Sherlock simply watches him, breath warm and steady on John’s face, and finally John’s eyes slip closed and he moves to press their lips together-

            -except then Sherlock’s turning his head, offering his cheek instead of his mouth, and John’s lips meet soft, slightly stubbled skin instead of the cupid’s bow he’d been hoping to taste, yet the move is so innocent, so _Sherlock_ , that a flood of affection fills his chest and he pulls away fractionally only to press his lips lightly a moment later against Sherlock’s cheekbone.

            The soft noise Sherlock makes at the contact causes something hot to coil in John’s belly but he pushes it away firmly. Not now.

            “Thank you,” he says quietly. He’s still close enough that his lips brush against Sherlock’s cheek as he talks, and Sherlock shivers at the sensation. “Thank you so much for trusting me.” He slips his hand out of Sherlock’s hair and cups his cheek momentarily before pulling back to restore the space between them. There’s a light flush on Sherlock’s cheeks and he won’t quite meet John’s eyes again, but there’s an unmistakeable, if shy, smile growing on his face and John can’t stop a similar grin breaking out on his own.

            Finally Sherlock clears his throat and gestures loosely at John’s plate. “Your dinner’s probably gone cold by now.”

            “Don’t care.” Food is by far the last thing on John’s mind. “I wasn’t really hungry, anyway. Angelo’ll box it up, won’t he?”

            “Mm.” Sherlock lifts his head to scan the restaurant, and John takes advantage of the moment to admire the long clean line of his neck and the dispersing blush on his skin. He honestly wasn’t expecting so strong of a reaction on their first date, but he can’t say he’s anything but tremendously pleased. In fact, he can hardly believe this is the same sub he met outside of Bart’s just the night before. Sherlock’s been eager and almost affectionate tonight, a far cry from both his abrasive working-self and the fearful submission he’d shown John while dropping.

            Except… John frowns. Sherlock’s behaviour hasn’t actually been that much different; it’s just more refined, lacking the tinge of fear and anxiety that had coloured it before. Looking up at John through his lashes, hesitating with his deductions… John had just taken that as politeness during dinner, but Sherlock had done the exact same things yesterday under drop. And then he’d been rather insistent about knowing John’s interests and limits but less forthcoming about his own. He’d even offered himself for punishment after John lost his temper, something which makes John’s stomach feel cold as he remembers the expression that had crossed Sherlock’s face.

            He doesn’t want to think that Sherlock is manipulating him, but he can’t dismiss the possibility, and the pleasantly warm feeling that had started to permeate his limbs suddenly dissipates, leaving him a bit empty and off-balance. Thankfully Sherlock has managed to call Angelo over with boxes for the pasta, giving John a moment to try and regain his composure.

            What could Sherlock want from him? They barely know each other—well, John barely knows anything about Sherlock; three quarters of his own life story has probably been read, analysed, and filed away by now. But then Sherlock should know that John’s got nothing to offer him. He’s got no money, no social standing—he’s not even especially attractive. If Sherlock isn’t actually interested in a relationship, why pursue this? Why submit, why let John do something as intimate as feed him in public? Why let John _kiss him_?

            “John?” Sherlock moves his head around a little, trying to catch his attention. “Are you all right? We’ve got boxes now.” He shakes the Styrofoam containers in his hand to emphasise the point, and John does his best to dredge up a smile.

            “Yeah, fine. Sorry. Are you bringing yours home, too?”

            “’Course. One should never waste Angelo’s food.”

            The exchange sounds light, but John can hear the current of tension beneath it. Sherlock’s picked up on his anxiety and is trying to sniff out the source of it like a bloodhound.

            _Oh, can you be any more dramatic?_ he snaps at himself as he shovels pasta into his box. _And get a hold of yourself. Control, that’s what you’re meant to have. At least until you get home—then you can lie in a heap and figure out what you’re going to do. Control, for him, until then._ He glances up at Sherlock, who’s carefully spooning pasta into the container so that the sauce doesn’t splash, and barely holds back a sigh at the tender feeling that spreads throughout his chest. Ridiculous as it is, Sherlock has already firmly wedged himself into John’s heart and mind; he can’t bring himself to even think of cutting it off, now. It’s as if he’s gotten a glimpse of something brighter than himself, something incredibly fragile that’s had to grow too strong too quickly, and the prospect of being invited to touch, of being granted the privilege to watch it and nurture it all but takes his breath away.

            He’ll need to ask Sherlock about it, but not now. They’ve already had one argument tonight, and John doesn’t want to shake the foundations of this any more than he has to. Besides, if he jumps right in like this and makes assumptions and reacts haphazardly, he’s more likely to insult Sherlock than find out anything useful. He’ll go home and think about everything he’s seen, and then maybe put in a few questions to his colleagues at the surgery. Carefully—that’s how he’s got to go about this.

            “Are you quite finished?” Sherlock’s fidgeting in his seat, fingers drumming along the top of his takeaway box, and John frowns as he closes the lid of his own.

            “What’s the rush?” he asks. “Is there a second part to the evening that I’m not aware of?”

            Sherlock’s mouth twists to the side, but it seems to be more in embarrassment than displeasure or annoyance.

            “I’m craving a cigarette,” he finally admits.

            John raises an eyebrow. “You smoke?”

            Sherlock tilts his head back and forth a few times and the tapping of his fingers grows a bit more agitated. “Not really, no. I’m on nicotine patches—helps me think—but it’s not quite the same thing as the smoke itself. London streets, though—always smell at least a bit smoky. Are you coming?” He gets up and sweeps towards the coat rack, grabs his Belstaff, and is out the door before John’s properly on his feet. His pasta sits, forgotten, on the table.

 

* * *

 

            Sherlock’s hands are shaking. A cigarette would fix that (left inner pocket, lighter in the right) but he won’t give himself one. He’s been doing so well on the patches. Besides, John’s a doctor. He’d disapprove.

            _Who gives a damn if John approves? He’s not your Dom._

            Sherlock clenches his hands tightly inside his pockets and leans against the wall of the building. The air burns with the smell of car exhaust, but nothing approaching cigarette residue. Oh well.

            He’d done so well at dinner; John’s obviously interested in him, if the kiss is anything to go by. He hadn’t been expecting that. He supposes he should feel gratified, but the memory of the noise he’d made keeps playing in his ears, louder and more embarrassing each time, and he digs his thumbnail roughly into the side of his index finger.

            He needs to relax. John’s done nothing to hurt him so far. In fact, he’s been ridiculously gentle. He _fed_ Sherlock, for god’s sake, and didn’t get offended when Sherlock refused to let him kiss his mouth, but rather played off of his signals and kissed his cheek—

            _And then you had to moan like a fucking whore._ Sherlock clenches his hands tighter, then forces them to open and relax. Surely it can’t be that bad—John’s probably forgotten all about the sound by now—but his skin still feels much too hot and half of him is tempted to just leave John here and go home to Molly. But then she’ll ask questions and assume all the wrong things and he can’t bear her thinking that John’s hurt him when he’s done precisely the opposite.

            God, why is he so upset about this? He _likes_ John, he’s admitted as much to Molly. He _wants_ John to be interested in him, wants John to take him on (or at the very least try him out quickly so they can decide if they’re compatible after all before he’s lost too much time), but they’ve only known each other for a day and already John’s kissing him. He’d even felt the beginnings of subspace calling to his mind at several points; he’d allowed it—just enough to complement and bring out John’s Dominance—but the kiss had been too much.

            “Sherlock?”

            He glances over his shoulder to see John exiting the restaurant, both boxes of pasta in hand. “You forgot this.”

            “Oh. Thank you.” He takes the food from John and then looks at his shoes awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

            “Not smoking, I see,” John says. His voice is light but forcibly so, much as it had been after he’d come out of his reverie. It’s not displeasure, exactly, but rather… disappointment? Sherlock’s stomach suddenly feels cold. Has John misinterpreted his anxiety as rejection? He’d thought John had proven himself to be more observant than that—but then, he’s always prided himself on being rather hard to read.

            “Didn’t end up needing it after all,” he says quickly. _Think of something, something flattering. He likes being assured of his skill._ “Do you know,” he remarks (and god, he sounds manic, but it’s imperative that John knows that he’s _wrong_ ), “you’re the only Dom I know who’s insisted on eye contact during an apology.”

            John raises his eyebrows. “Really.”

            Hm. Perhaps not the _best_ idea. Still, in for a penny, so Sherlock continues blithely on.

            “Yes,” he says. “Everyone else seems intent on having you grovel; head down, touching the floor and all that. I thought it was… interesting that you preferred the opposite.”

            John tilts his head now, considering, and Sherlock feels a quiet thrill of victory in his chest at having distracted him.

            “I dunno where I learned it from,” John says thoughtfully. “I just never thought an apology was complete without it. It’s easy to say you’re sorry if your head’s down, but if you’re actually looking at someone, it’s a bit harder. I always thought that meant you were more sincere.” His expression turns a bit dubious. “Are you telling me you liked that?”

            “Well of course I didn’t _like_ it, no one _likes_ to apologise.” The words are out of his mouth before he can properly weigh them, and Sherlock winces once he realises what he’s said. “But I did… appreciate it. I mean that.”

            It takes a minute, but John’s sceptical expression finally dissolves and Sherlock offers a tentative smile. John doesn’t quite return it, but rather holds out his hand; Sherlock frowns and offers his own.

            “Did you appreciate tonight?” John asks quietly. His thumb brushes across Sherlock’s palm softly, but it’s an unhurried gesture, not flirtatious at all. Sherlock likes it.

            “I did,” he replies, voice quiet as well. It’s not a lie; his moment of panic aside, he’s greatly enjoyed spending time with John. He’s also gathered useful information, knows how he can adjust his behaviour for next time… “Would you like to do this again soon?”

            John’s grip on his hand tightens; his eyes have turned hopeful, but just as quickly they’re guarded again for some reason that Sherlock can’t read.

            “If you’re sure,” John says. “That would be very nice.”

            Oh, this is getting tedious. He slipped up, yes, but did that really undo the entire evening for John? Well, he knows a way to fix that.

            “Of course I’m sure,” he says firmly. “I suppose it’s your turn to choose the venue this time, though I will of course text you if anything else comes up on the case. You’d be interested, wouldn’t you?”

            “I’d love that.” John’s thumb has moved upwards to caress Sherlock’s wrist. It’s traditionally what one does at the end of a date, and as such is a reassuring sign, but Sherlock thinks the concept could be reinforced just a touch more. “As long as Lestrade’s okay with it, obviously.”

            “Don’t worry about Lestrade,” Sherlock assures him, gentling his voice slightly. “Now that I know you’re so useful, how could I leave you behind?”

            John doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that, so Sherlock takes advantage of the moment and bends his knees, offering his neck to John just as he’d done the night before.

            The intake of breath is the same as well. “Sherl—”

            “It’s fine, John.” It comes out a bit sharper than he’d intended, so he breathes and tries again. “It’s fine. I mean it.”

            The world around them stills and goes quiet. Cars pass by, sputtering and splashing up water; pedestrians weave around them, a few muttering in irritation and others sparing them a curious glance; dinner in the restaurant continues on, the noises and smells occasionally spilling out as the door opens and shuts. Yet it all feels strangely far away, as Sherlock studies the back of his eyelids and waits for John to touch his neck.

            Then he feels it; John’s hand leaves his wrist, and moments later two fingers press down on his nape, right below his hairline. They stay like that for the span of several heartbeats, then John presses harder and even though Sherlock knows he’s doing this as a fully conscious decision, rather than because he feels any sense of true submission right now, he suddenly has to hold back a whimper.

            _Control yourself. Not yet._

            John must see his throat muscles contract, however, and he murmurs a quiet, “right.” He slides his hand downwards, tracing the outline of Sherlock’s vertebrae, then pulls his hand away and steps back.

            “I’ll text you,” he promises softly. “Take care of yourself, all right?”

            Sherlock lifts his head and smiles, hoping to coax one more out of John before he leaves. “I will. Thank you for tonight, John. It was very enjoyable.”

            The corner of John’s mouth lifts momentarily and then he’s turning around, leaving, and despite the similarity to their parting at Scotland Yard earlier, Sherlock finds that the butterflies in his stomach have been thoroughly subdued. He frowns, and places his fingers over the still-warm marks on the back of his neck.

            Perhaps he should go and talk to Mycroft.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I had ideas for about six scenes, and managed to get two in here. (Sherlock and Mycroft were very difficult to wrangle- their scene was rewritten two or three times.) As usual, things ran away from me, but I feel fairly proud of what came about (especially the Sherlock/Lestrade bit). We'll be getting back to John next chapter- the case will come back in either next chapter or the one after, depending on how things go. I hope you enjoy!

            There’s no security present when Sherlock arrives, but that’s hardly surprising; the last few members of the Diogenes Club usually trickle out by seven thirty or eight o’clock, and it’s pushing eight forty-five as Sherlock throws open the door to Mycroft’s office.

            “There you are.” Mycroft doesn’t look up from his paper. “I was wondering when you would arrive.”

            “Are the timestamps too small for you to read, now?” Sherlock gathers his coat tighter about himself and takes the chair in front of Mycroft’s desk, crossing his legs as he sits down. He doesn’t care if his posture makes him look defensive; Mycroft can read that from his voice alone and the meagre comfort the position affords makes up for any possible disadvantage. “It hardly matters that you look more formidable without spectacles if you can’t even see your sub to hit them properly.”

            Mycroft ignores him and continues reading, his eyes trailing down the page at a rate that makes Sherlock grit his teeth in irritation. They both know Mycroft can read upwards of 800 words per minute; it’s blatant dominance, making him wait, but Sherlock holds his tongue. At last the paper is folded and set aside, and Mycroft leans forward over his desk.

            “Five weeks, Sherlock, really?” he asks with a touch of disdain. “Is Miss Hooper so incompetent?”

            “Not at all,” Sherlock replies. “You wouldn’t have contracted her if she was.”

            “No.” Mycroft adjusts a file on the corner of his desk a few millimetres. “Therefore I must assume that she is so exceptional at her job that within five weeks she has cured you of all of your past…” he waves his hand in a gesture somewhere between self-prompting and dismissal, and Sherlock’s face pinches. “… _trauma,_ and that you are now perfectly content to live as a submissive with… Doctor John Watson, is it?”

            “I reminded him that it was an option,” Sherlock contradicts bitterly. “I didn’t suggest we get up and move in together tomorrow.”

            Mycroft’s eyebrows lift ever-so-slightly and Sherlock wants to curse. Instead he bites the inside of his cheek and glares at the wall over Mycroft’s head.

            “Sherlock,” Mycroft begins gently, in _that_ voice, and Sherlock digs his nails into the fabric covering his knee. “All of this will have been for naught if you throw away the help I’ve given you and go back to bad habits. You can see that, can’t you?”

            “I haven’t gone back to anything,” Sherlock snaps. “You ought to know that, if you’ve been watching me.”

            “Monitoring, brother dear.” Mycroft laces his fingers together and leans back in his chair. “You haven’t upheld your half of the contract with Miss Hooper.”

            Sherlock scowls. “I’ve been in subspace around her.”

            “Not willingly.” Mycroft idly flicks a piece of lint off his suit jacket. “You have subtle bags beneath your eyes, there are tension lines around your mouth and forehead, your posture is stiff, your skin is off-colour, and you’re practically vibrating with energy. _Let go,_ Sherlock.”

            His neck is tilting, his eyes slipping closed before he can brace himself against the command. Mycroft’s right. He’s exhausted, tense, and desperately needs to fall asleep with someone’s hands in his hair. He can’t deny he _likes_ it, then, the weight of his eyelids and the fuzziness of his brain pulling him under…

            _“I don’t want you running off in the middle of the night. Put this on.”_

_The chain’s too short; his neck will crick or his windpipe will be compromised, no matter what position he takes. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to.”_

_“Kittens don’t talk back.” Fingers are suddenly at his throat, pulling at his collar—his forehead knocks against the headboard—stunned, he bats feebly as the chain snaps into place._

_“Please—”_

            Forcefully, Sherlock digs his nails into his palms and drags himself back into the present, breathing heavily as his vision clears. Embarrassed heat flushes his face and he clenches his jaw in anger.

            _Predictable. Should have seen it coming. Control yourself._

            “I am _not_ your submissive,” he says in a low voice. “Don’t presume you can order me about like that again.”

            “Even if you were mine,” Mycroft replies, completely unfazed, “I hardly think it would matter. Your punishment record shows that you’re no more likely to follow her orders than mine or Mummy’s.”

            “My—” Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat and the heat quickly spreads along his arms and trunk. “She hasn’t told you—”

            “Not explicitly, no, but the CCTV recordings have revealed four separate accounts of public punishment within the last month. Two in this week alone.” Mycroft tilts his head, a politely bland smile on his face. “I expected things to be more difficult in the beginning, Sherlock, not as time wore on.”

            It is all Sherlock can do to keep his voice steady. “It still is the beginning, relatively speaking.”

            “It has been _five weeks_ and you still have yet to display any sort of willingness to accept her as your _Dominante._ ” The faintest touch of strain has made its way into Mycroft’s voice, but Sherlock cannot focus long enough to relish it. “What more can we do for you, Sherlock? If Miss Hooper is inadequate I can resume my search, but finding someone else who is compatible will take time, and the responsibility still ultimately falls on you to come to terms with what you are.”

            “What I am.” It’s too tiring to continue dredging up righteous anger. Instead, Sherlock, drained, slumps forward in his seat. “Why couldn’t I have been a Dominant, Mycroft? A switch, even.” He pauses. He knows it’s spite motivating him to say it, that in his right mind the idea would be abhorrent, but he has spent several dark hours in his mind palace contemplating it, constructing alternate worlds where it is blessedly, blessedly true, and some vindictive part of himself just wants Mycroft to suffer, so he lets the needle slip past his lips. “Or better yet, nothing at all.”

            “Don’t say that,” Mycroft snaps. Sherlock glances up at him, a flicker of surprise worming its way through the apathy. “It’s better that you were born this way, even with your misgivings. Your intellect, your drive, everything that you’ve striven for in this life would not exist had you been born without a dynamic.” Mycroft’s voice softens. “You must make peace with what you’ve been given.”

            “That’s easy for you to say, you’ve won.” Once again, he’s given away rather more than he intended, but this time he can’t be arsed to care. An old, familiar desperation is building inside of him, the one born of the belief that his elder brother could fix _anything_ , no matter how impossible it seemed.

            A naïve belief, one that should have dried up long ago. Yet Mycroft’s expression has changed; it’s serious now, wary, as if something’s caught his attention, and despite himself a glimmer of hope shivers into being inside Sherlock’s chest.

            “It would not be difficult for you to do the same, if you applied yourself,” Mycroft says cautiously. “There’s no need to get… discouraged.”

            Sherlock hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. Being open is not an option here; they do not operate that way, and he doesn’t think he could manage it, besides. Mycroft has given him an opening. He’d best take it.

            “It’s not a matter of discouragement, as such,” he begins. The silence stretches out between them again, until Mycroft inclines his head. On the same page, so far, anyway. Sherlock takes a breath and continues. “Rather, it has to deal with… history. It is often said that history repeats itself, and while in a literal sense that is an absolutely ridiculous statement, the… sentiment, in this case, remains.” He swallows. “My… outing with John Watson tonight was not a self-destructive gesture. In fact, it was the opposite. Yet I find myself paralyzed when I consider the possibility that… certain events from the past could happen again.”

            Mycroft does not reply right away. His eyebrows crease, uncomprehending, as he searches Sherlock’s face. Then, a moment later, his eyes widen and his entire body goes still.

            “Sherlock.”

            “Don’t.”

            “I…” Mycroft exhales slowly, curling and uncurling his fingers on top of his desk. “I never thought…”

            “Obviously.”

            Mycroft continues to ignore him. “He came from a respectable family, had good career aspirations… He was always courteous around myself and Mummy when you brought him over.” His lips draw together into a tight line. “You must understand, if I had seen any indication, if I had known—”

            “If you had known, what?” Sherlock demands. “Would you have asked me to leave him? You know I wouldn’t have. He was the only person who cared about me, the only Dominant who let me _be as I was_ without trying to change me.” In the beginning, anyway, but Mycroft doesn’t need all of the gory details. “The point of me telling you this wasn’t for your pity, or your apologies. They’re less than useless now.”

            “Then what would you have of me?” Mycroft meets his eyes; his face looks more worn now that it did five minutes ago. “I assume therapy is out of the question.”

            “It was never in. Neither is prosecution. Too long ago, and hardly bad enough to make a fuss over.”

            Mycroft’s sceptical ‘hm’ speaks volumes, but Sherlock ignores it.

            “Would you like me to investigate Doctor Watson?” Mycroft asks quietly after a moment. “I can have a file sent to you by morning, if you wish.”

            “No.” Sherlock leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and scrubs his hands over his face. “I don’t want to know anything that he doesn’t tell me himself or that I can’t figure out on my own. It’s more… proper, that way. But I do want you to know. Just in case.”

            “I’ll inform you if I find anything of note, but otherwise I’ll keep mum,” Mycroft replies. “Acceptable?”

            Sherlock sighs. “Yes, fine.” He says nothing as Mycroft makes a note in his little black book, but lifts his right hand and begins to scratch lightly at the back of his neck. “How did you know I was going to be safe with Molly, when you sent me to her?”

            Mycroft glances over at him. “Part of it was her credentials, obviously,” he replies. “She’s a well-known Dominant in southern England with a successful history of rehabilitating submissives with behaviour problems.” He pauses. “She was also asexual, as you are, however much less violently. I thought she would be a good match.”

            “Do you think John could be, too?” Sherlock hates sounding this lost, this needy, in front of his brother. His neck twinges as he puts more pressure on his nails.

            “Don’t do that, Sherlock.” The command is barely present but he obeys regardless and twists his fidgeting fingers together in his lap. Mycroft finishes writing, sighs, and replaces the notebook in its drawer. “All I know about Doctor Watson at the moment is that he is a Dominant. I cannot predict his behaviour, nor his sexuality, without research, which I will conduct. However… he has already shown interest in you; if your… career choice has not already deterred him, I would take that as a good sign. Wouldn’t you?” Mycroft offers him a tight smile. Sherlock lifts a corner of his mouth half-heartedly in response.

            “Go home,” Mycroft orders him softly. “Get some rest. I’ll watch over you.”

            “Yes, Mycroft.” Sherlock stands and begins to button his coat. “Thank you.”

            “Always.”

            They regard each other silently for a moment, then Mycroft dips his head and returns to his paper. Sherlock wants to linger, to continue soaking up his brother’s comforting presence, but instead forces himself to turn and make his way out of the building.

            As soon as he is outside, he takes the collar of his coat in hand and scrapes it roughly against the back of his neck until the skin burns. He’s a pathetic submissive, going to his brother instead of his Domme when he needs reassurance. He’s pathetic for needing reassurance at all; he doesn’t need Mycroft watching out for him, and he _certainly_ doesn’t need him worrying about something that happened over a decade ago. What on earth had possessed him to mention it? He’d dealt with Mycroft needling him about his drug habit for over ten years without once feeling the need to explain how it had started. And now Mycroft’s going to look back over everything he’s said for the last decade and re-examine it and wonder how much he’d contributed to his little brother’s trauma and he may even try to offer _compensation_ —

            Sherlock drags his nails across the back of his neck once, twice, three times before he manages to wrench his hand away and take a deep breath. Molly wouldn’t be happy to find out that he’s punishing himself. Neither would Mycroft—he’d _just_ told Sherlock to stop doing it, _stupid_ submissive—or John.

            John… he can still feel John’s fingers pressing on his spine, despite the tingling pain. The image is soothing, and he almost lets himself fall into the fantasy—John whispering comforting words in his ear as he strokes his neck, curling his fingers into his hair and rubbing cream into the wounds to numb and heal them, smoothing over the skin until his fingers reach the base of Sherlock’s throat—

            Except John’s not going to want to do that anymore, is he? Because he’d tried to kiss Sherlock and Sherlock hadn’t let him. He’d tried to be kind and Sherlock had insulted him, hadn’t been able to turn off his mind for one evening to keep his deductions from souring another relationship, this one before it had even gotten started. No, John’s not going to want to comfort him, but he’s been successful enough at denying himself for this long. He can hold out for a little while longer.

            He retrieves the cigarette from his left inner pocket and is about to reach for the lighter when his phone chimes. He pauses. Answers it.

            _Just checking up on you- it’s gotten pretty late. Should I expect you back tonight? Hope your evening went well. :) Molly_

            His thumb strokes along the side of the phone as he reads. It takes three tries before he can get the words to make sense, five before he knows how to reply.

            _It went fine. Not at John’s. Walking back; don’t wait up. SH_

            Before he even gets the message sent confirmation he’s scrolling through his address book down to L, cigarette still poised between his fingers. The timing shouldn’t be a problem; it’s only just past nine, hardly a time for anyone to be asleep, and it’s not as if Lestrade’s likely to have any company that he’d be disturbing.

            He says as much when Lestrade answers, sounding disgruntled.

            “Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Lestrade replies sourly. “You know, just because I’m alone doesn’t mean I won’t be—well.” He clears his throat and Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Anyway, I don’t have any developments on the case _since this morning_ , so if you could just call back tomorrow, I’d—” He stops suddenly. “You called me.”

            Sherlock says nothing. He hears some quiet rustling over the line, then Lestrade speaks again, voice low and urgent. “Are you all right?”

            He doesn’t really have to think about his answer, but it takes a few seconds to come out of his mouth. “No.”

            “What happened? Do you need me to come find you?”

            Sherlock shakes his head, even though he knows Lestrade can’t see. “No, I’m going home now. I was… out tonight.”

            There’s some silence as Lestrade puts the clues together. “Out. With that doctor guy you brought in this morning?”

            “Mm.” Sherlock fiddles with the cigarette in his free hand, debating, then places it between his lips as he reaches into his coat for the lighter.

            “Well?” Lestrade prompts when Sherlock doesn’t go on. “What happened? Did it go wrong?”

            Sherlock ponders that as he lights the cigarette and takes a drag. The smoke fills his lungs and he holds it a few heartbeats before exhaling. “I’ve had worse first dates.”

            “That’s not really helpful. Are you smoking?”

            His only response is another drag, but he keeps the phone up to his face this time.

            Lestrade sighs, sending a crackle of static over the line. “All right. Put that out right now, Sherlock, or so help me God.”

            “Why should I?”

            Lestrade’s voice gets lower, but not quite harder. “You’ll do as I tell you. Put it out, and tell me what happened.”

            Sherlock lowers the cigarette but doesn’t stub it out. “I took John to dinner. We made plans after we left Scotland Yard this morning; he enjoyed helping with the case, and I wanted to see him again. I dressed up for him. He seemed… pleased. Then I had to go and ruin everything.”

            “How’d you ruin it?”

            How didn’t he? Sherlock closes his eyes to think. “I deduced him. He didn’t mind it when we first met, so I wasn’t as cautious as I should have been. I managed to inadvertently insult his previous submissive; when he got angry, I offered my cheek. That upset him.” Sherlock pauses, then takes the phone away from his face and steals a quick breath of the smoke.

            “That doesn’t sound like you ruined _everything._ Just made a mistake.”

            His hand tightens around the phone, making the plastic creak. “He tried to kiss me.”

            “Ah.” Lestrade is silent for a moment. “Did you let him?”

            “On my cheek.” Sherlock brings the cigarette up to his mouth again, uncaring if Lestrade hears. “At first he didn’t… seem to mind, but then I had to go outside. Wanted to smoke. Held off, until now, anyway. He joined me, but he’d changed—still polite, but distant. I got him to touch me before he left, but he wouldn’t smile.” Sherlock grits his teeth and flings the cigarette away. “I should have let him do it properly.”

            “Hey, now.” Lestrade’s voice finally gets stern, and Sherlock stops walking to sink down onto the front step of a block of flats. “If you don’t want him kissing you, you’ve got to tell him that.”

            “But I _can’t_ , don’t you see?” With the hand that’s not holding his phone, Sherlock begins to rub the back of his neck anew. “Asexuality comprises a very small percentage of the general population. For the rest of the world, kissing and touching and fondling each other is as important as breathing. Besides—” his tone grows bitter— “you’ve been privy to most of my failed encounters. Most people can’t tolerate me long without some form of sexual gratification. I might as well get used to the idea.”

            “Are you even listening to yourself?” Lestrade demands. “You realize that what you’re describing is a shit relationship, right? For God’s sake, Molly should be teaching you these things.”

            Sherlock sighs and leans his head back against the wall. “I know it’s not ideal, but I haven’t got a choice. There’s only five months left until I’m back to living in a studio flat, bringing Doms ‘round every month or so when I can’t stand my own skin any longer.” Lestrade doesn’t respond to that and Sherlock closes his eyes, filling his lungs with cold, exhaust-tinted London air. When he speaks again, it comes out as more of an exhale than a whisper. “I can’t be alone again.”

            “Okay.” Lestrade’s voice shifts into something deeper, gentler than what Sherlock has heard in a long time; it lacks the firm command that would characterize a Dominant, or even the false bravado that subs in the force tend to adopt, yet Sherlock finds it just as much of a balm now as he had two months ago when he’d crawled, desperate and sick with drop, to Lestrade’s door. A longing sound breaks free from his throat and he claps a hand over his mouth, cheeks burning in shame. One fucking word, and he’s already—

            “That’s it,” Lestrade murmurs. “It’s all right, Sherlock, let it out. You’ve been under a lot of stress today. It’s fine.”

            Sherlock shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. What would Mycroft think if he saw him like this? What would _John—_

            “Just listen to me,” Lestrade goes on. “Listen to what I’m saying, and then you can choose if you want to obey. You don’t have to, you know that, right? It’ll make me happy if you do, but I won’t be disappointed if you don’t. Do you believe me?”

            “Yes,” Sherlock whispers.

            “Good. Now, take in a deep breath for me, okay? Deep, all the way in. I hope the air’s fresh where you are.”

            “It’s not,” Sherlock says quietly, but the joking helps, just a little, and he lowers his hand and breathes like Lestrade tells him to anyway.

            “I’m sorry about that. Now keep breathing, and close your eyes. If you’re tense anywhere, let it out. If I remember correctly, it’ll be at the top of your head, the back of your shoulders, and your calves, right?”

            “Right,” Sherlock breathes. He stretches his muscles and then releases them, over and over, until the deep ache starts to recede. “Now what?”

            “Now you’re going to listen to me,” Lestrade says. “I don’t care if you believe what I tell you or not; your job is just to listen. Do you understand?”

            Sherlock turns so that he’s sitting parallel to the wall, leaning against it with knees drawn up under his chin, and murmurs his assent. A cool wind rustles his hair and grazes the back of his neck. He shivers slightly and flips up his coat collar; distantly he thinks of his scarf, of Molly, of home.

            “You’re a good boy,” Lestrade begins quietly. “And the most brilliant man I’ve ever met, and it bothers me when I hear you say those sorts of things about yourself. You should never have to compromise, especially after what you’ve been through.”

            Sherlock says nothing and continues to breathe. Lestrade’s words do not take away the worst of the longing or the accompanying shame, but they are comforting. They reassert the fact that Lestrade is his ally and has his best interests at heart; Lestrade wants nothing from him, will not claim that Sherlock owes him anything. He is simply there, a steady presence that Sherlock can lean on when it gets to be too much. He is Sherlock’s net, a willing hammock for when times get bleak. Sherlock breathes.

            “If you decide to go through with this, I won’t stop you,” Lestrade continues. “You deserve to be able to make your own decisions. But I’m not going to forget about you, either. If you get yourself into trouble, I’ll help you, because you deserve to be safe, too.” Suddenly his voice wavers, breaking Sherlock out of his reverie. “I care about you, you bastard. I’m sorry I can’t do more than this, it’s just… it’s hard for me.”

            “You did fine,” Sherlock corrects him gently. “I’m calmer now, can you hear?” He purposefully exaggerates his breathing so that Lestrade can hear him over the line. Breath has always been important to Lestrade; every time Sherlock had gone over to his flat for sessions, that had been his method of choice for centring, grounding, and connecting. He can no longer recall individual sessions where Lestrade has had them breathe in sync for an hour or more at a time. It is simply what they do together.

            “You could just be saying that,” Lestrade retorts, but the quip is weak and Sherlock begins to hum softly; it’s a nonsense tune, not even something of his own composing, but Lestrade often needs his own reassuring after he’s helped Sherlock and this is the only thing he can do under the circumstances.

            Sure enough, within a couple minutes Lestrade lets out a shaky sigh and then chuckles self-consciously. “Sorry about that. Did it work all right, or…?”

            “Finish it, please,” Sherlock requests. “If you can.”

            “Yeah, alright.” Lestrade takes a few calming breaths and Sherlock tries to amplify his own exhales so that they have some semblance of connection. Then Lestrade starts to speak again, the familiar words causing Sherlock’s neck to tilt subconsciously towards his phone.

            “You’re going to go home,” Lestrade instructs him. “You don’t have to tell Molly about this if you don’t want to, but I want you to consider talking to her about John. I want you to put on something comfortable, and lie in your bed. Pet your hair if you like, or ask Molly to do it for you. I want you to fall asleep like that, and I want you to wake up tomorrow back to your old self. D’you understand?”

            “I do,” Sherlock replies. Part of him wishes that he were at Lestrade’s flat so he could enjoy the post-session massage of his scalp and shoulders, but that’s more of a distant longing than an urgent need, so he rises to his feet and brushes off the seat of his jeans. “Thank you, Lestrade.”

            “I’m happy to do it.” Lestrade is silent for a moment. “You really are brilliant, Sherlock. I hope this works out for you.”

            “Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs again. “Goodnight, Lestrade.”

            “Night. I’ll text you about the case when we get more.”

            Sherlock presses the end call button and sighs as he pockets his phone. The sky above him is cloudy, as usual, but as he watches, a few dim stars twinkle in the scattered patches of clear. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he sets off towards home.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I apologize for this having taken so long. This month has been very busy for me, what with attending my brother's graduation in Chicago and starting a new job. These scenes are also more plot-propelling, in my opinion, and while necessary, were not very easy on the imagination. (Read: Mycroft is a nasty little bugger to write at times.) However, I do have a handful of ideas for the next chapter that I've been looking forward to writing, so we'll see if that one will come out a little quicker. I'll do my best, in any case. I hope you enjoy the chapter.
> 
> Also, this chapter deals with mentions of past abuse and how to treat an abuse victim. While I did do some reading, I realize that what some characters say may not be completely appropriate, and my own knowledge definitely has gaps. If you take offense at something or think that I said something wrong, please tell me, and I will make edits where appropriate. It is a topic that will be getting more screen time in the future, and I want to make sure I treat this subject with respect and with correct information.

            The clinic looks exactly the same as it had when he’d left it. John pauses on the pavement outside and smiles wistfully, flexing his left hand. He’s not sure how Sarah’s going to react to seeing him again; even though their breakup was amicable, they haven’t spoken since he left the surgery. Still, Sarah’s a kind person, and John’s not coming for himself. Hopefully she’ll be willing to help.

            The receptionist, Diane, still recognizes him, and smiles as he comes in. “Hello, Doctor Watson,” she says. “It’s lovely to see you again. Did you need an appointment?”

            “No, nothing like that,” John replies. “I was just wondering—” his heart thumps, a bit off-tempo, but he ignores it—“is Doctor Sawyer in? It’s nothing urgent, if she’s with a patient.”

            “Oh, no, it’s fine.” Diane reaches for her desk phone. “She’s taking her lunch a bit early today. I’ll buzz her for you.”

            “Cheers.” John glances around the waiting room; there are lots of seats open, but he decides to stay standing as he waits. Sarah will be out soon enough, and his leg’s not bothering him too badly. (It barely has at all since he met Sherlock, if he’s being honest. He’s sure that means something, but what that something is he doesn’t want to think too hard about right now.)

            The door to Sarah’s office opens and as she glimpses John, her brow furrows. “John? What are you doing here?”

            Her neck is bare. John’s ashamed of himself as soon as he looks, and quickly brings his eyes back up to her face.

            “I wanted to get your opinion on something,” he says. “It’ll just take a few minutes. If you don’t mind, of course.”

            Sarah blinks a few times, glancing between him and Diane, but finally straightens her shoulders and nods. “Yes, fine, come on in.” She holds the door open for him and John nods politely to both her and Diane as he enters.

            “So, what’s the problem?” Sarah asks once they’re both seated. “You look fine, if you don’t mind my saying, and I wouldn’t be your GP even if you were sick.”

            “Not sick, no,” John agrees. “It’s just that I…” He fidgets slightly in his seat, his eyes drawn to the half-eaten fruit salad on Sarah’s desk. “I’ve… met someone.”

            It takes Sarah a moment to respond. “Oh.” She takes a pen off of her desk and begins to roll it between her fingers. “Did you want to get tested, then?”

            John’s cheeks flush as he remembers the noise Sherlock had made when his lips had brushed against his cheek, and the warmth that had shot through his body at the prospect of even holding Sherlock’s hand, but he shakes his head. As strong as those memories are, he can also remember Sherlock’s face as he offered his cheek for punishment, and the confusion in his voice when John had turned him down.

            He no longer believes that it was all an act—enough of Sherlock’s happiness around him that day had seemed genuine enough after he’d gone over it in his head while he’d tossed and turned—but the explanation that has left him with makes his stomach writhe, tight and sour.

            “No,” he says at last. “I don’t think that’s going to come up for a long time.”

            The pen stills. “Oh.” Sarah pauses. “What happened?”

            “Well, I met someone, like I said—a sub. He belongs to someone at the hospital, but not really. It’s complicated.” John flexes his fingers again. “I was—am—interested, and we went out to dinner last night. He invited me out to his work, and he’s really, _really_ brilliant. But…” John sighs. “There’s no easy way to say this. Sarah, I think I’m looking at an abuse victim, and I could really use your help.”

            “…Why me?” Sarah asks. She places the pen back into its holder, refusing to meet John’s eyes. “I’m sure you’ve got trauma specialists and therapists at Bart’s.”

            “He works there,” John says. “Sometimes. And his Domme works there, and I didn’t want this to spread around. Even if I’m wrong, that’s a lot of exposure for him if someone lets something slip.” His statement is met with silence. Sarah’s nodding, but her gaze has fallen down to study the floor, and her shoulders have hunched forward slightly. John’s eyes soften. Part of him wants to reach out and hold her, even though that was never part of their dynamic, even though now it would be horrendously unacceptable.

            “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “This was probably more than a bit inappropriate. If I’ve made you uncomfortable, I can go now. It’s fine.”

            “No,” Sarah murmurs, though her eyes are still a bit far away. “I’m all right. What did you need, then? A confirmation diagnosis, someone to speak to him…?”

            “I don’t have that much evidence yet,” John admits. “It’s just a suspicion I got from some things he said, how he’s acted.” _I’m sorry, sir. Do you want to punish me?_ His fault that Sherlock had said that in the first place. His mouth tastes bitter. “I was just wondering what sorts of things to look for, or what I should know before taking on someone who’s had this happen to them, if they’re not forthcoming about it. How I could even figure out if I’m right in the first place, without making it worse.” _If I haven’t already made it worse._

            Sarah smiles gently. “You already know what to do. Look how well you treated me.”

            “That’s because you were telling me what to do,” John contradicts her. “He seems intent on hiding it, if it even happened at all. I’ve already… _triggered_ him once, I think.” He digs his fingertips into his knees. “I don’t want to do that to him again.”

            “You can’t force it out of him, John,” Sarah says. “You know that much. Just watch. You’re very good at watching.”

            John feels the corner of his mouth lift in a self-deprecating smile. “I didn’t notice you being unhappy.”

            “That’s different, and beside the point.” Sarah moves her head to catch his eye, the movement reminiscent of Sherlock’s from last night. “I appreciate this is a trickier situation than ours, but keep in mind you’ve learned one thing that triggers him—that’s one less mistake you’ll make now. I know how you work. You’re remarkably adaptable for a Dom your age.” Her eyes twinkle at the jab, and John finally lets his half-hearted smile bloom into the real thing.

            “I guess I’ll just have to try and keep up, then.” He takes a deep breath and releases it, rubbing his palms over his thighs in preparation to stand up. Sarah notices the motion.

            “Is it still bothering you?” she asks as they get to their feet. John shrugs.

            “It’s off and on. Mostly off since I’ve met Sherlock, actually.” He chuckles. “It got better after I met you, too.”

            “I’m glad.” Sarah leans in and gives him a chaste peck on the cheek. “You’ll do fine. Just be there for him. If you need anything, just ask.”

            “Thank you.” John lifts his hand, pauses, and then lays it on her shoulder. They look at each other for a moment, then Sarah inclines her head and gestures to the door.

            “Good luck.”

* * *

 

            John scuffs his heels as he shuffles down the sidewalk, unsure of where to go next. He doesn’t really want to go back to the flat—not alone, anyway. Mrs Hudson’s been commenting on how restless he’s been the last two days, and it’s only a matter of time before she figures things out, given the fact that he hasn’t been at work and can’t blame his mood on patients. He could go visit Sherlock at Molly’s (however much common dating rules state that one should allow plenty of time between early encounters, Sherlock’s presence is like a drug and John is already hooked), but he feels like that would be too forward, and would put too much pressure on Sherlock besides.

            John stops walking, eliciting some grumbles from pedestrians behind him. He could text Sherlock with an invitation for lunch; it’s more relaxed than dinner, and gives Sherlock a way to refuse that’s not face-to-face. If they’re lucky, maybe they could even continue some conversations from last night. John just hopes that Sherlock hasn’t already gotten a better offer from Lestrade. (He assumes he hasn’t, that Sherlock would text him to come along if that were true, but he’s not certain that he’s reached that level of importance yet for Sherlock, no matter what he said or let John do at the end of their date.)

            He’s already pulling out his phone as he tries to remember if he’s got anything besides leftovers in the fridge. He’d hate to impose on Mrs Hudson’s hospitality, even if she’d squeal to see him dating again. Maybe lunch at Speedy’s, then, and tea at the flat afterwards if Sherlock’s amenable. That way he won’t feel forced into the flat and can end the encounter early if he wants.

            As he’s scrolling through his contact list, John notices out of the corner of his eye that a sleek black car has pulled up to the kerb not two metres away. Normally he would ignore that sort of thing, except the engine hasn’t turned off, and it doesn’t look like anyone is preparing to get in or out. Feeling a prickle of wariness crawl down his spine, John puts his phone away. A moment later, it rings.

            Keeping his eyes on the car, John lifts his phone to his ear without looking at the caller. “Hello?”

            “Good morning, Doctor Watson,” a rather posh male voice answers. “I trust you had a pleasant visit to the clinic?”

            John’s brow furrows. He opens his mouth, says nothing, and closes it again. The man doesn’t continue. After a few beats, John tries again.

            “Who is this?” he asks, keeping his tone just this side of polite. “Can I help you?”

            “You can get into the car, Doctor Watson.” This statement is punctuated by the clicking of the door lock, and for a long moment John simply stares in incredulous disbelief before letting out a humourless laugh.

            “I hope you’re joking.”

            “It is in your best interest to comply, Doctor Watson.” The man sounds bored, as if he’s examining his nails or something similar. John frowns.

            “How d’you know my name? I’ve never spoken to you before in my life.”

            The man sighs as if put-upon. “It is also in the best interest of Sherlock Holmes for you to comply.”

            A burst of fear floods John’s veins, quickly overridden by adrenaline as his focus narrows down to his view of the car and the weight of his phone in his hand.

            “Where is he?” John demands. “Is he hurt?” He ignores the people shoving past him, muttering at him as they wade through the sea of foot traffic. He cannot feel his leg, cannot hear anything of the London noonday noise that surrounds him over the sound of his own heartbeat and the humming of the phone line. Nothing else matters.

            The man’s response, when it comes, is much too clichéd for his liking. “All of your questions will be answered,” he says, “if you will only get into the car.” The door wobbles a bit pointedly, and John eyes it with a determined sort of resignation. Finally, after a few seconds more of gritting his teeth and weighing his options, he hangs up his mobile and wrenches the door open.

            He’s greeted by the sight of a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit fiddling with an umbrella. John’s cheek twitches, but he climbs into the car without a word. The man offers a smile; it is so perfunctory and cold that it only serves to wind up John’s nerves tighter.

            _Relax, Watson. Delicacy first._

            “Now, then,” the man says, “that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

            John glares. He’d suspected before, but the man is definitely a Dominant. That sort of voice is one John himself has used on subs who were particularly obdurate about following orders. The man’s looking for a contest, but John won’t give him one. It won’t help Sherlock, and would almost definitely lead to something unpleasant for himself. He keeps his mouth shut, but allows his right hand to clench and unclench against his thigh.

            The other man seems content to let the silence stretch out. He busies himself with a paper from the folder sitting on his lap, the knuckle of his forefinger stroking gently up and down along the handle of his umbrella as he reads. Every so often he’ll glance up at John, his slitted eyes making John feel as if he’s being stripped naked for the man’s amusement—or worse, that he’s some sub who’s done something wrong and is being ignored until they admit it.

            “Are we just going to hog the parking all afternoon?” John finally bursts out after they’ve been sitting for about ten minutes without moving from the kerb. “You generally get tickets for that sort of thing, you know.”

            That gets the man to look up at him properly and offer another icy smile. “That is not a concern, I assure you,” he replies, although he does lift his umbrella to rap it against the window between them and the driver. As the engine purrs back into life, the man returns his paper to its folder and turns his attention towards John.

            “Thank you for agreeing to join me,” he says, still using the infuriating sub voice. “It tells me that you appreciate the significance of the position you’re in.”

            “I didn’t agree to do anything,” John replies hotly. _Steady, man._ “But that’s not important. Tell me what you’ve done with Sherlock.”

            The man raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “ _With_ him? Nothing at all, my dear Doctor. He’s merely the subject of discussion.” He pauses. “You needn’t worry. He’s not in any danger.”

            “I don’t trust you.”

            “As well you shouldn’t.” The charming façade is gone. “Tell me, Doctor Watson, what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

            “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

            The man laughs through his nose. “You wouldn’t, would you?” He begins to flip through his folder, barely glancing at the text. “Passed medical school with above-average marks, but then changed course to become a soldier. Discharged by reason of injury, with a commendation for valour.” He looks up at John, fake smile in place once again. “Possibly the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

            John doesn’t respond. His face feels hot, and the collar of his shirt is too tight but he doesn’t want to raise a hand to loosen it. How the _hell_ does this man know all of that? His name, his service record, his sodding _grades_. He opens his mouth, but cuts off the words before he can voice them. That’s not important right now. He doesn’t matter. Sherlock matters.

            “Who the hell are you?” is what comes out instead. “Is—Sherlock’s coming after you, is that it? And you’re trying to-to dissuade him?” He knows his framing of the situation is pitiful; if this man were out to scare Sherlock off his trail, what would he need John for? There’s no camera that he can see, no way for Sherlock to know that he’s here, and even if there were, he can’t possibly be important enough to Sherlock after two days to warrant altering his plans. His heart rate jumps up a notch as he suddenly remembers that there’s a case open—the Dom-killer—and even though Sherlock had seemed confident that the killer was a woman, that doesn’t mean that this man can’t be a friend of hers, or working for her, or an accomplice—

            “Your mind jumps to the most colourful and yet most erroneous conclusions, Doctor Watson,” the man replies, brushing an invisible piece of lint from his suit jacket. “I suspect it comes from your love of spy films—very common to the populace—so perhaps you can be forgiven. However,” and here the patronising voice returns, “I’m feeling rather insulted and would appreciate an apology.” His eyes glint. “Now.”

_Fuck delicacy._ “I’m not giving you a sodding apology,” John snarls. “You promised me answers if I sat in your bloody car. Well, here I am, and you haven’t told me a damn thing. _Tell me_ if Sherlock is all right or I’m calling the police.”

            The man seems unfazed as he pulls a small black notebook out of his pocket and makes a short note in it. “I appreciate the sentiment, Doctor Watson, but do realise that you have not provided me with any information either. What would you say to an… exchange?”

            “An exchange,” John repeats warily.

            “Nothing indiscrete, of course. Nothing too personal. You answer one question, so will I. Acceptable?”

            _This isn’t a game._ “Fine.” If this is the only way John has to find out what the hell is going on, he’ll take it, but he doesn’t have to like it. “What do you want to know?”

            “You’re under the impression that you have no connection of importance with Sherlock Holmes,” the man says. His eyes bore directly into John’s; although the deep green is disconcerting, John finds he can’t look away. “What kind of relationship do you intend to pursue?”

            That deserves another stare of disbelief. “You don’t consider that personal.”

            The man doesn’t blink. “I consider it pertinent enough that I will ask you to dispense with the florid details and give me an honest response.”

            John’s jaw tightens but he forces himself to keep breathing slowly and evenly as he considers his answer. The man is obsessed with Sherlock, that much is obvious, but John’s getting a much weaker reading of “powerful criminal with a grudge” now. Rather, the man seems more interested in John himself for some reason he can’t fathom. Why else twist his arm to force him into the car, why present him with personal information (most likely illegally obtained) to scare him, why the interrogation style conversation? The thought that Sherlock would hire someone to kidnap and question him in order to find out his true intentions is disturbing, but with a twist of his gut John remembers why just such a thing would be necessary in the first place. That more than anything decides what he says next.

            “We’re dating,” he answers at last, softening his tone slightly. “That is, if Sherlock says we are and if you can call it that after two days. Where it goes is up to him. Now, who are you and what’s _your_ connection to Sherlock, if you don’t mind?”

            The man glances down at the handle of his umbrella, twirling it nonchalantly. “I am merely an interested party,” he replies. “I concern myself with Sherlock Holmes’ affairs from time to time, and I advise you leave it there.”

            “Nope,” John says, shaking his head. “Not going to cut it.”

            The man looks affronted. “I beg your pardon?”

            “You heard me,” John replies. His heart is pounding, but it grounds him now, rather than destabilizes; he’s wrested back a modicum of control, and he intends to use it. “I told you that I intend to date Sherlock Holmes. You don’t get to get away with calling yourself “interested.” Who are you, really?”

            The man settles himself in his seat and gazes into John’s eyes once again. John tries his best not to blink.

            “Tell me, Doctor Watson,” the man says after a minute has passed, “how many Dominants do you think have owned Sherlock Holmes?”

            The corner of John’s mouth twitches at the choice of phrase. “I dunno,” he replies. “A handful, I suppose?”

            “There has been precisely one, for any significant length of time,” the man corrects. “Not counting the current Miss Hooper, of course.” He brings the umbrella up onto his lap and plays with the tip; John wonders for a moment if there is a blade inside it, then quickly discards the thought.

            “For the majority of Sherlock’s life, he has joined into and then broken partnerships with dozens of Dominants,” the man continues. “All save one lasted less than a month. On one memorable occasion, the relationship lasted a single day. Why do you suppose this is?”

            _Sherlock turning his head to deflect John’s kiss to his cheek; Sherlock offering his neck in response to praise while exuding fear from every pore; Molly, over the phone: “He’s my case, John. I trust you.”_

_“Do you want to punish me?”_

            John meets the man’s gaze, shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

            The man laughs through his nose again, but it is softer this time, and his gaze seems more introspective than focused on John. He says nothing, and the car is silent for several more minutes until it finally comes to a stop.

            “Do think about everything I’ve said, Doctor,” the man tells him. “Have a pleasant day.”

            John does not return the sentiment. He knows that he should be more concerned that the man knows where he lives, but truthfully, he’s just glad to be so close to his own front door. He gets out of the car and, without a backwards glance, enters 221 and locks the door behind him.

            He needs to talk to Sherlock.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gods of inspiration were smiling on me this month. I absolutely loved writing this chapter, even when the characters ran away from me, as they are so wont to do. I debated about trying to include the next date in this chapter, but I figured this was a good stopping point, and I wanted to get you guys a chapter before a month had passed this time. Hopefully the word counts will keep coming so I can get you the next bit by the beginning of August. :)
> 
> Chapter warnings for potentially dub-con situations, potentially disturbing imagery (not too graphic), and slight self-shaming for asexuality.
> 
> Note on asexuality in this fic: since sexuality is going to come up more from here on out, I'm going to explain where I'm writing from. I identify as asexual, but I have certain exceptions and experiences that I am translating over into Sherlock's experience and preferences- this is because I don't often see my exact self represented in ace fic, and I wanted to try expressing it. If you have any issues or concerns, please feel free to mention them. I don't want anyone to feel offended or confused by what I write.
> 
> With that said, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

            _The flat is quiet. It has been for a long time now. The lights are off and the curtains are closed; if he were to open his eyes—even though he’s been told not to, and he’s a good boy, so he won’t—he wouldn’t be able to see more than shadowy outlines in the sparsely furnished room._

_He’s lost track of how long he’s been kneeling. Master took away his watch so he wouldn’t hear the ticking and then left the room so he couldn’t even guess by listening to Master’s breaths. His knees don’t hurt, though; the floor is carpeted, and Master has even given him a lovely soft pillow to kneel on._

_His hands are clasped behind his back. Master had offered to tie his forearms to keep them in the proper position, but he’d said no. He’s determined to please Master with his self-control._

_Suddenly the door opens. His breath catches in his chest—Master is back—but he does not waver from his position. He’s a good boy._

_“How are you holding up?” Master’s voice is quiet and soothing and tickles the hair over his right ear. Sherlock tries to nuzzle against Master’s cheek but, since he cannot see, his nose presses into Master’s ear instead and he whuffs in surprise, jerking backwards a few inches. Master laughs and runs a hand through his curls; the sensation sends a cascade of pleasure down Sherlock’s spine and he tilts his head back, letting a soft whimper escape his throat._

_“So beautiful,” Master whispers. “Perfect pose, even after half an hour. Would you like a reward, kitten?”_

_Sherlock begins to purr quietly and turns his hand to lap delicately at Master’s wrist. He can’t quite manage to do both at the same time—the human throat cannot truly purr, after all, and he needs his tongue to approximate the sound—but Master must not mind, because he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s forehead._

_“Good boy.” The slide of Master’s lips across his forehead makes Sherlock shiver and his knees twitch, knocking him slightly out of position. He immediately tries to correct, but Master lays a hand on his shoulder and he stills._

_“It’s all right,” Master says. “You can rest on your heels again. Relax your shoulders, and bring your hands around front.”_

_Sherlock obeys, though he keeps his eyes closed as Master inspects his wrists and elbows for signs of strain. He breathes slowly and deeply, feeling every millimetre shift of his soft t-shirt and pyjama bottoms over his skin; he swears he can even feel Master’s fingerprints, he is so sensitised._

_“Lie down,” Master says. “On your stomach, like that. Pillow your head on your arms. Good.” Gently, he places his hands on Sherlock’s back and begins to rub in broad, sweeping strokes that make Sherlock moan in appreciation. Master chuckles and kneads at a prominent knot in Sherlock’s left shoulder. “Good pet. You’re so good for me.”_

_Sherlock cannot speak. His ears feel as if they are full of cotton wool, and a loud, full silence embraces his mind. He cannot think, cannot do a thing except lie there and arch his back into Master’s touch and let out a soft keening sound with every panted exhale. This is perfect._

_Except suddenly Master’s fingers slip. Sherlock tenses as his neck twinges with pain, but after a moment of waiting, head cocked, the sensation fades and he tries to settle back down onto his arms. He’s fine. Master just made a mistake._

_Then it happens again. Sherlock hisses and jerks away from Master’s touch._

_“Pet? What’s the matter?” Master sounds genuinely confused. Can he be oblivious to what he’s doing? It feels as if he’d been digging his nails into Sherlock’s skin._

_“My neck,” Sherlock explains, his voice rusty from disuse. “It hurts.”_

_“That’s all?”_

_Sherlock whips his head around to look at Master in disbelief. “What? I—”_

_Master’s face is wrong._

_His eyes, his eyes, what’s wrong with his eyes? They’re the wrong shape, the wrong colour—the blue is too light—they don’t belong on Master’s face, beside the soft lines born of smiling too much, the tanned, wind-chapped skin, the warm, wispy blonde hair—_

_“That’s just your collar, pet,” Master says patiently, except that’s wrong too, his voice is changing, getting harder, sharper, and Sherlock’s limbs seize up with fear. “It’s all right. You’ll get used to it.”_

_“My—” Sherlock feels hot. Too hot. His heart is pounding, his skin slippery with sweat as he lurches away from Master on unsteady knees. His clothes have disappeared, gone as if they never were, and tight, desperate noises force themselves out of his throat as he tries to cover himself from Master’s terrifying gaze._

_“Go on, pet,” Master calls to him. “Touch it.” Sherlock can no longer see him, yet still his skin crawls with the memory of those fingers stealing, spoiling every inch they could find. “You always told me you never wanted to wear one. I listened.”_

_His chest is heaving; why does it feel like he can’t breathe? With trembling hands, Sherlock touches his fingers to the burning skin of his neck; the pain it causes makes him sob, but he has to look. He lowers his hands—_

_They are covered in blood._

 

* * *

 

            A choked cry escapes Sherlock’s throat and he wrenches his eyes open, forcing himself to bolt upright—it is still dark, but he recognizes his surroundings. He is safe, in his closet, at home.

            His pyjamas are soaked with sweat and sticking to his skin, making him feel clammy even as the heating kicks on and begins to circulate the air. Still, compared to what he’d been experiencing—or at least _thought_ he’d been experiencing—a minute ago, this is infinitely preferable. Sherlock sighs and goes to rub his face, but a twinging pain from the base of his neck makes him go still.

            No. That wasn’t real, it—he lifts a hand but pauses before it can touch his skin. Nausea builds in his stomach and an off-key ringing fills his ears, so loud that he almost doesn’t hear the knock on the closet door.

            “Pet? Are you up? I’ve made breakfast.”

            Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes several times, but he cannot find his voice. Molly knocks again.

            “Pet, it’s time to wake up.”

            Forcefully, Sherlock clears his throat. “Yes, fine. I’ll—I’ll be out in a minute.”

            Molly pauses. “Are you all right?”

            _No._ But Molly doesn’t want him to lie to her. He ought to tell her. But really, he’s not _not_ fine, this is nothing he hasn’t dealt with before—

            “I’m coming in,” Molly says, and before he can tell her no, the doorknob is turning and the door opens and then he’s face-to-face with her, already dressed in a nice blouse and skirt and even stockings while he’s sprawled in a tangled mess of sweaty sheets and pyjamas, his left hand still hovering in the air beside his neck.

            Molly’s eyes widen.

            “What happened?” she demands, on her knees in a second, gentle fingers probing at whatever wound is actually on his skin. Sherlock hisses as she touches a particularly tender part and she draws back.

            “Pet,” she says, taking hold of his chin so that he’s forced to look her in the eye, “who did this to you? Was it John?”

            _Yes._ Except that was just a nightmare. John didn’t, John would never—Sherlock trembles and lowers his gaze as he whispers, “No, Mistress.”

            Of course, if John didn’t do it, that leaves only one other option. Molly watches him silently for a moment, then stands. Immediately, Sherlock is struck with the irrational urge to reach out for her, but he quashes it down and keeps himself still. He’s being ridiculous. She’s not leaving him because he’s broken yet another rule, she’s going to get the first aid kit. Obvious.

            “I’ll be right back,” Molly says on cue, and leaves the closet. Once she’s gone, Sherlock sighs and sets to pulling the damp sheets off of the mattress. The wound can’t be bleeding too profusely, or Molly would have cast about for something closer to bandage it with. That’s reassuring, if only slightly.

            There’s a tap on the doorframe—Molly’s back. Sherlock sits himself quietly on the bed, facing away from her, and stretches his neck slightly to give her a better view.

            “Is it so bad?” he asks as she settles behind him.

            “It’s not pretty,” Molly replies. There’s a crinkle of plastic and then the sound of a lid being unscrewed. “This will hurt, pet.”

            The alcohol burns, but Sherlock bites his lip and stays quiet as Molly swabs at the wound. She uses two squares of cotton to disinfect, and then a third to pat dry. Finally she reaches into the basket for a bandage and tape. The bandage stings as it’s pressed against tender skin, and the tape feels heavy, stifling. It’s his own fault, though, so he doesn’t complain.

            “Why did you do it, pet?” Molly asks. She’s finished her work, but her hand remains on Sherlock’s upper back, her fingertips kneading gently at the muscle. “I thought you were past that.”

            _I was._ Sherlock looks down at his hands, clasped loosely over his ankles. Briefly he thinks about lying, telling her that it was an accident, that he’d asked John to do it and it’s all fine. He thinks about claiming his limit that she’d accepted, safewording and refusing to talk.

            “I was afraid.”

            Molly’s hand is immediately in his hair, smoothing down the tangled curls. “What were you afraid of?”

            “John.” It’s so much easier to do this when he’s not looking at her. Sherlock closes his eyes and lowers his head to rest it on his knees. “But he’s not at fault. Please don’t be angry with him.”

            “I’m not,” Molly promises. “Just tell me what happened.”

            Sherlock breathes. “John was… kind, during our date. He found me aesthetically pleasing, appreciated my deductions and even managed to forgive me my mistakes, of which there were many. He fed me, and touched my neck at the end of the night. His patience was exemplary.” He hesitates. Molly must notice the muscles in his back tensing, as she brings her hand back down to stroke them reassuringly.

            “It’s all right. What else happened?”

            “I… panicked. Twice. After I insulted him the first time, I was unsure how to make it right. I asked him if he would like to punish me, which paradoxically upset him and led him to feed me as his own apology.” He pauses, drumming his fingers agitatedly along his shin, but the disapproving noise he’s expecting at the admission doesn’t come. “Later, after my next deduction, he seemed very impressed. He wanted to kiss me. I let him, though at the last moment I offered him my cheek instead of my lips. It was… nicer than I had anticipated, but…” Sherlock scratches lightly at the delicate skin over his ankle bones. He knows he shouldn’t, especially since Molly is sitting _right there_ , but he cannot help himself.

            “Are you afraid of him doing it again?” Molly asks. Sherlock shrugs, but the motion is jerky, almost manic. He digs his nails into his skin, but before he can scratch again, Molly pulls his hand away.

            “Don’t do that,” she says. “I’ll put the mitts on you if you keep it up.”

            Despite the heaviness of the conversation, Sherlock manages a quiet laugh at the mental image. Molly makes a stifled sound, as if she’s biting her lip, but then a moment later she’s giggling too, her thumb pressed against the pulse point of Sherlock’s wrist. The sound is soothing and eventually Sherlock relaxes his hands. Molly lets go soon after.

            “You haven’t answered me,” Molly goes on after a minute or so has passed. “You said that it was nice when John kissed you, but that seems to bother you. What are you afraid of?”

            He wants to tell her that she knows. She must know by now; though he hasn’t laid it out explicitly, she’s not an idiot. Her job has taught her how to see the truth, and she’s certainly seen it in him. Sherlock clenches his fists. But that would be running away again, wouldn’t it? Not giving voice to it, not admitting what had happened.

            _You have a choice to make._

            “I am finding it… increasingly difficult to separate John and Sebastian in my mind.” Each word stings like a thorn in the palm as he says it, yet at the same time lightens his chest as they are pulled free from the wound. “Despite my current positive regard for John, I cannot discard the possibility that things will change, as they did before. I said as much to Mycroft.”

            Molly’s voice is solemn. “Sebastian?”

            Sherlock nods. “He was my Dom while I was in university. For a year of it, at least. He was rich, popular—I fully expected him to hate me, since all the other students did, yet he took an interest.” Sherlock opens his eyes and props his chin on his knees, looking off into the middle distance pensively. “I can’t tell you if I felt the same then as I do for John now; it was over ten years ago, and I was much more willing to be involved with Doms at the time, at least for short affairs. Perhaps I was just happy that someone finally seemed to have compatible interests and didn’t demand any behaviours that I deemed embarrassing or extraneous to a relationship.”

            “So he was kind at first?” Molly asks. She’s begun to trace a finger lightly up and down his forearm; it tickles, but Sherlock doesn’t shake her off. It’s a self-soothing gesture for her, petting him as if he were actually a cat, and harmless enough.

            “Kind? No. I don’t believe it’s in Sebastian’s nature to be _kind._ Understanding?” Sherlock closes his eyes again.

            _“Red.”_

_Sebastian raises an eyebrow from where he’s standing by the side of the bed, hands tucked under the hem of his shirt. “Safewording already? We haven’t even started a scene.”_

_Sherlock’s nose twitches; he feels the urge to blush but forces it back. This is_ important. _“I won’t have intercourse with you. That’s non-negotiable, so if that was your intention you can leave now.”_

_Sebastian actually laughs at that. Sherlock’s nose scrunches up into a scowl this time; he still can’t quite tell when people are laughing_ at _him rather than_ with _him, as Mummy explained it once, and his inability to deduce it with anything approaching accuracy is beyond insulting._

_“I’m just taking off my_ shirt _,” Sebastian says, as if that makes complete sense. “What, do you never sleep naked?”_

_“No!” Sherlock replies, affronted. “And neither are you, if you’re going to be in my bed.”_

_Sebastian shrugs and lets the hem of his shirt go. “All right, then.” He takes a step forward to turn down the covers and Sherlock draws back a few inches._

_“What are you doing?”_

_Sebastian glances at him. “Sleeping in your bed with my clothes on like you asked? Unless you object to something else.”_

_“No,” Sherlock says slowly, brow furrowed. “You mean you’re all right with that?”_

_Sebastian shrugs. “Hardly a grand concession. Now if I may…?” He gestures to the bed and Sherlock finally nods, eyes scanning over every inch of Sebastian’s body as he climbs in and makes himself comfortable. Then he turns over, holding out an arm, and Sherlock’s mouth goes dry._

_“Do you object to me holding you?” Seb asks. His tone is joking, but Sherlock bites the inside of his lip as he weighs the words. After a moment’s deliberation, he rolls over so that he’s facing away from Seb and then scoots backwards until his back is touching Sebastian’s chest. It’s immediately unpleasant: he feels surrounded and caged in, and it only gets worse once Sebastian’s arm tucks itself around his chest. He’s too warm, and it takes entirely too much energy to block out the sensation of Sebastian’s pelvis against his own._

_“You all right?” Seb whispers into his ear. “You’re fidgeting.”_

_“Fine,” Sherlock mutters, and forces his limbs to still one by one until he’s just wiggling his foot tightly back and forth._

_“You’re a horrible liar.” Seb’s speaking at normal volume now, and Sherlock winces as they separate. “What’s the problem?”_

_Sherlock shrugs, curling into himself as he pretends to be fascinated with the thread pattern in his pillowcase._

_“Sherlock.”_

_A prickle goes down his spine; Seb hasn’t used his command voice much thus far, but it causes the same reaction every time he does. Sherlock sighs and rolls onto his back to bear his throat half-heartedly. Sebastian doesn’t touch it, though, and the silent rejection stings._

_“I’m not sexual,” Sherlock says at last, after the silence has stretched out long enough to become uncomfortable. Sebastian snorts._

_“Yeah, I caught that,” he replies. “But we weren’t doing anything.”_

_“We were touching,” Sherlock spits out. “Your—” he gestures at Sebastian’s crotch, his cheeks aflame. “I don’t want to touch it.”_

_“I never said you had to.” Sebastian’s face is contorted into a kind of crooked smirk, and Sherlock’s temper flares._

_“Is that it, then? It’s that simple? Just tell you I don’t want something and you accept it, no bartering or arguing involved?”_

_“Oh, there’ll be bartering,” Sebastian corrects him. He touches the backs of his fingers against Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock stills. Heat begins to pool treacherously in his groin; he quickly brings up a knee to hide it, but Sebastian’s attention is elsewhere._

_“You say you don’t want sex,” Seb continues, his voice silky-soft. “What do you want, then? Pain? Humiliation?”_

_Sherlock shakes his head as much as he can without dislodging Seb’s fingers. “No, I—”_

_Seb’s fingers press harder. “No, what?”_

_“No, sir.” He’s hard now, he can’t deny it, and the shame of reacting so strongly so soon after his declared asexuality makes tears prick threateningly at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t like humiliation, sir, I don’t want them laughing at me. I like—” But he can’t say it—it can’t possibly be one of Seb’s interests, he’s never noticed anything that would suggest—_

_“Tell me,” Seb orders. He has to obey._

_“I’m a pet.” Sherlock whispers the admission, clenches his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see Seb’s face. “I’m your cat, I’m your pet, it’s safer that way, it…”_ It’s not what you want. Say it.

_But Sebastian’s fingers don’t leave his neck. Rather, they travel slowly upwards to trace along his jaw and then begin to stroke under his chin, catching slightly on stubble._

_“A cat, hm?” Seb’s voice is thoughtful, not disgusted or disappointed, and Sherlock’s eyes fly open in surprise. “I can work with that.”_

_Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. He can’t see an obvious lie or a repressed laugh; does that mean…? He swallows, testing the resistance of Seb’s fingers on the muscles of his throat, then, tentatively, contracts his vocal chords and lets out a quiet mewl. A mischievous twinkle appears in Sebastian’s eye; his caresses grow firmer, and then the tears prick again, and Sherlock is grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him down until their chests press flush together in a hug._

            “When did he change?” Molly asks. Her fingers play with the tight curls at the base of Sherlock’s nape, and the sensation is soothing, but Sherlock shakes his head. He’s said enough for today. Molly makes a quiet noise of assent and presses a gentle kiss to his hair.

            “Thank you,” she whispers. “You’re such a good boy, Sherlock. I’m so proud of you.”

            Sherlock turns his head to nuzzle at her wrist. His head is buzzing, the space behind his eyelids flooded with half-formed images and impressions of light and colour, but they’re beginning to settle, like kicked-up sediment on a river floor. He’s going to be okay. He’s told Molly—some of it, anyway—and she isn’t angry, doesn’t think he’s a horrible pet. She thinks he’s _good._ He feels warm.

            The rattling of his phone on the shelf above his bed breaks the moment, however. Molly pauses in her stroking and leans over to check the name.

            “It’s your brother,” she says. “Important, I’m guessing?”

            _John._ Sherlock snatches the phone and flicks the touchscreen to unlock it. Mycroft’s sent him a series of texts filled with data: birth date, address, subs (only one since Afghanistan, none for a long stretch before joining the army—more detail unavailable), military record (multiple deployments, injured in action, reached rank of captain, dismissed with commendations), police record (just a handful of parking tickets and a few citations for disturbing the peace—reactions to nightmares prompting neighbours to call the police, Mycroft notes, and Sherlock refuses to acknowledge the swooping and subsequent relief in his stomach as he swipes through the information), family and friends…

            And then a message from Mycroft below.

            _Personality and talents well-suited for your way of life, and all sources point to competency. Brave, fiercely loyal, and protective. However, sources also indicate emotional instability, possible PTSD, and trust issues. Given his already strong emotions concerning you after only two days and without an official bond, consider long-term development and potential transformation. Be safe, Sherlock._

            Sherlock silently rereads the last line, tracing the side of his phone with his thumb until the screen goes dark. It’s only then that he realizes that Molly has gone, most likely to salvage what’s left of their ruined breakfast. He rises, about to go and change his clothes so he can help her, when his phone vibrates yet again. He turns it over, curious about what _else_ Mycroft has to say; then he reads the name.

            Ten minutes later he emerges from Molly’s room, freshly showered, fixing the last button on his cuffs with shaking fingers.

            “John called,” he says by way of explanation as Molly turns to him, two fresh plates in her hands. “I’m going to his flat.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this ended up taking MUCH longer than I anticipated, and I apologize. A bit of it was block, and a bit was not being entirely clear on who knew what and how they were feeling and what their motivations were, and a bit was the usual "this scene never wants to die." It took a while to sort things out, and I think I still have a bit of work to do, but the plot does move a good step forward in this one. I hope you enjoy it. :)

            The screen of John’s phone goes dark four times before he works up the courage to make the call.

            He listens to the ringback tone play once, then twice, then hears a soft click. No one speaks. John halts his pacing before the windows of the flat and pulls his phone away from his ear to check the screen, but the call hasn’t dropped, nor has Sherlock hung up on him. He listens again, then, at last, clears his throat and speaks. “Hello, Sherlock?”

            “John.” Sherlock sounds a bit surprised. “What can I do for you?”

            “Oh, nothing,” John says reflexively, then winces at how strained his voice sounds. “Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

            If he notices, Sherlock doesn’t mention it. “I’m fine,” he replies. “Got home in one piece, though I’m afraid I don’t have anything new to share about the case. Lestrade hasn’t gotten back in touch with me.”

            “Ah.” John rubs his hand along the back of one of the desk chairs. “I’m sorry to hear that, but I, uh, wasn’t calling you to ask about the case.”

            “Oh.” Sherlock pauses. “A bit early, isn’t it?”

            John’s cheeks turn warm. Sherlock’s read him again, without so much as needing to see his face. Is he really that obvious? Maybe he’s trying to politely let John know he’s being too presumptuous. “Well,” he says, backtracking, “you certainly don’t need to come over if you’re busy—”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock interrupts. “Of course I’m not busy; I’ve just woken up. I can come over now if you’d like.”

            “Not the point,” John corrects him, though the statement sends a wave of such utter _relief_ through his veins that he suddenly has to support more of his weight on the chair than his legs. “Of course _I’d_ like it, I’m asking. The question is would you?”

            There’s a soft scratching noise on the other end of the line. Sherlock’s quiet for a moment and then says, in a much softer voice, “I would like to come see you, John. Now, if you’d be amenable.”

            John smiles and some of the tension in his forehead and shoulders eases. “Good, that’s… good.” There’s a beat of silence before he realises that Sherlock is probably waiting to hear where they’re meeting. “There’s a, uh, café right by my flat, actually, if you wouldn’t mind. 221B Baker Street. Speedy’s is right next door, you can’t miss it.”

            “221B,” Sherlock repeats. John can hear a faint rattling as if Sherlock’s sorting through hangers. “Got it. I’ll be over shortly, John.” The phone beeps, indicating the call has ended, and John lowers his phone to cradle it in his hands.

            Sherlock wants to see him again. Is so willing to, in fact, that he’s coming over, immediately after waking up, to come and see _John_ , and have lunch with him, and maybe even see the flat—

            “Oh, god.” John looks around the sitting room. He hasn’t dusted the flat in ages; old magazines litter the coffee table; books are strewn around, leftovers from his apathetic moments when he would listlessly pick them from the shelves and never return them; the dishes haven’t been done in at least two, maybe three days… When had he let it get this bad?

            _Worry about the flat later. You need to get dressed._ How long does it take to get from Molly’s flat to his? John jogs into his bedroom and flicks open the dresser. There’s no need to be fancy, not really; they’re only having lunch and tea. Still, his hand hesitates.

            Well, what can he definitely cross out? His uniform’s upstairs, packed away in some box, and he’s certainly not bringing it out. He’s told Sherlock so, and it would be embarrassing besides, putting it on just to pop next door for a sandwich. All right then. Jeans or slacks? Sherlock wore jeans out to dinner last night, but his had been form-fitting and highly flattering. John’s legs aren’t nearly as long, nor are they shapely. Not that that’s a problem—none of his clothes are as tight as Sherlock’s anyway.

            “Aw, to hell with it,” John mutters. He’s almost forty years old—what’s he doing, agonising over his clothes? He grabs a pair of dark blue jeans out of the drawer and, after another moment’s hesitation, his black-and-white striped jumper off of the hanger. A bit more casual than last night, but Mrs Hudson always smiles when she sees him wear it; something about it making him look younger, he supposes. Maybe that’ll help him out with Sherlock.

            Thus dressed, he makes his way back into the body of the flat and studies it once more, lips pursed. The dusting is going to have to wait—no way is he going to be caught doing _that_ when Sherlock arrives—but the books and magazines he can put away, and the more disgusting dishes can definitely be cleaned.

            He’s about halfway done when there’s a knock at the door to the flat. Heart pounding, John wipes his hands off on a tea towel and goes to answer it.

            “Hi, sorry about the mess,” he says, or at least begins to say, because it’s not Sherlock standing in front of him, but rather Mrs Hudson, wearing a confused little smile.

            “Hello, John, dear,” she says. “I heard a bit of banging around, and I wanted to make sure that you were all right.” She peers around him into the flat. “Oh, you’ve been cleaning!” Her smile turns mischievous. “Are you having someone over?”

            There’s no point in lying to her. John nods and smiles back, a bit sheepishly. “His name’s Sherlock. He’s coming over right now, actually, and we’re going next door to have lunch and then maybe come back for tea.”

            “Oh, John!” Mrs Hudson clasps her hands together, eyes bright. “I’m so happy for you! What’s he like?”

            “Brilliant,” John replies. “Absolutely brilliant. He works with Scotland Yard as a detective sometimes. Took me along for a case yesterday, and he’s just amazing to watch. He—” Downstairs, the knocker raps on the door twice and John’s heart rate kicks up again. “That’s probably him.”

            “Don’t you worry, dearie, it’ll all be fine,” Mrs Hudson reassures him. “You finish straightening up, I’ll go let him in.” She goes to the top of the stairs, then turns around to face him again. “You’ve been sad for so long, John—after you came back, and after Sarah left, you looked so lost. I hadn’t a clue what to do.” She smiles, a bit sadly. “But when you talk about him, your whole face just lights up like it’s Christmas. It’s so lovely to see.” She looks like she wants to say more, but the knocker taps again and she brings up a hand to her mouth before turning to bustle down the stairs. John watches her go, unsure of what, if anything, he should say, then shakes his head and quickly re-enters the flat. He needs to straighten the couch cushions and put away the now clean dishes. It’s still not perfect, but it’ll have to do; he can hear voices—Mrs Hudson is _giggling,_ for Christ’s sake, what’s that about?—and footsteps coming up the stairs.

            _Settle,_ he orders himself. _It’s a date, not a deployment. Settle._

            And then there’s a quiet tapping on the doorframe and he turns around to see Sherlock standing in the entrance to the flat, clad in a black suit and crisp white shirt, his curls still mildly damp and drying haphazardly.

            He’s got a bandage on his neck.

            “What happened?” John exclaims. He closes the distance between them in three steps and reaches for the back of Sherlock’s neck before he realises that he hasn’t asked permission. He lowers his hands and takes a step backwards, but Sherlock hasn’t gone stiff. If anything, he just looks a bit embarrassed.

            “Accident,” he replies, head lowered slightly. “Molly dealt with it and I’m fine. No need to fuss.”

            John cocks his head. There are no other wounds on Sherlock’s body that he can see. He’s also not holding himself in any way that would suggest an injury. Besides, if he’d been mugged or attacked while going home, it’s unlikely he’d be this embarrassed about sharing. There’s almost no chance that Molly would have hurt him this way, so therefore… John’s stomach sinks. _Self-inflicted._ He wants to reach out and touch Sherlock so badly it’s almost a physical need, but he restrains himself.

            “Can you promise me it won’t happen again?” he asks quietly. Sherlock tenses.

            “That’s the nature of accidents.” There’s an edge to his voice now, but that only serves to confirm John’s suspicions. “Unpredictable.”

            “Yes,” John allows, “but we can choose what we do after the accident, can’t we?”

            There’s a moment of silence, then Sherlock’s eyes dart back up to meet his, wide with surprise.

            “In any case.” John keeps his voice gentle as he continues; Sherlock’s shoulders are set as if he’s expecting a reprimand, and he’s determined to break this image Sherlock has of him, whatever it is. “I’m not angry, but I will tell you now that I do not allow my subs to inflict punishment on themselves. It’s unnecessary, and they are far more likely to judge themselves harshly rather than fairly. Do you understand?”

            Sherlock nods, mouth tight. “Yes, John. I’m… sorry.” His eye contact during the apology is quick, but the fact that he tried, that he remembered at all, makes John smile.

            “Thank you,” he says. “Do you mind if I touch you? Just your face, I promise.”

            Sherlock shakes his head, so John approaches and brushes his thumb lightly over Sherlock’s left cheekbone. Sherlock tilts his head into the contact but his eyes stay alert, reading over John’s body just as they had that first night at the gate. John repeats the motion a few times, then pulls away again.

            “I’m sorry this got so deep so quickly,” he says. “I was hoping today would be more light-hearted. Do you still want to go eat?”

            “Of course,” Sherlock replies. He steps aside, gesturing for John to lead the way.

            John frowns. Not because Sherlock’s done it—it’s just manners, really—but because it’s rather submissive, and Sherlock doesn’t seem the type. Oh, he’s _a_ submissive, but practically everything he’s done since John’s met him has been the complete opposite of submission, not counting the times when he’s obviously been trying to impress John. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course—subs vary a lot, after all, and John often enjoys having a sub that he can wrestle with, so to speak—but it makes John wonder that Sherlock often seems to be choosing his actions carefully, as if he’s duplicating them from a manual with the aim of getting a particular reaction in return.

            “John?” He must have been staring too long; Sherlock’s eyes are darting between him and the stairs, his brows creased in confusion. “Would you… prefer me to kneel?” His left knee bends preemptively, but John comes back to himself and shakes his head.

            “No, god, I’m sorry. I was just in my head for a minute.”

            “I do that myself quite often,” Sherlock replies, straightening up. There’s a bit of relief in his voice, but he still seems fairly wrong-footed. “Shall we go down, then?”

            “Yeah.” But John’s not going to lead. He holds out a hand, which Sherlock stares at uncomprehendingly.

            “Take it,” John says. He doesn’t mean to laugh, really, but he finds it ridiculous that, as often as Sherlock can predict him, he just as often manages to throw Sherlock for a loop. “It won’t bite.”

            Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the joke, but the corner of his mouth twitches and a moment later his hand slips into John’s. His skin is soft, if cold, and John’s struck with the sudden urge to lean his whole body into Sherlock’s, to just touch him and breathe.

_One thing at a time._

            John does end up having to lead, if only slightly, down the stairs, as they aren’t wide enough for two men to walk side by side, but when they exit the flat and approach Speedy’s, he makes sure not to let Sherlock lag behind.

            “So, what did you say to Mrs Hudson to make her laugh like that?” he asks as they reach the café door. There’s a bit of a line, but it’s a nice day out so John doesn’t mind. “She sounded positively girlish.”

            “I didn’t say anything,” Sherlock replies. “She opened the door, said hello, and when she held out her hand I kissed it. She’s quite charming; has she been widowed long?”

            John doesn’t even bother asking how he knows that. “A few years, at least. Her husband was an utter arse; dragged her over to America and got her all tangled up in a drug cartel. He ended up getting executed, and she came back to Britain. I’ve been living with her ever since I got back from the war; it’s a bit big for me on my own, but I help her out around the flats and keep her company, and she keeps it affordable.”

            “She wants to see you partnered off,” Sherlock says. “Getting on in years, unlikely to find another partner of her own—like parents wanting to see grandchildren before they die.”

            John wrinkles his nose. “A bit morbid, that.” The line moves forward a few paces and they manage to squeeze inside the building. The smell of coffee and hot sandwiches assails John’s nose and makes his stomach growl; he looks towards the menu automatically, but then Sherlock’s hand tightens around his own and John glances up at his face instead. Sherlock’s silver-blue eyes are focusing on his with a single-minded intensity that makes John’s breath catch in his chest and he notices himself licking his lips unconsciously.

            “ _Do_ I offend you when I do that?” Sherlock asks quietly. “You don’t seem to mind it most of the time, but you must tell me if I cross a line. I won’t be able to tell otherwise.”

            “No?” John tries to keep his voice light as they take another step forward. “You can’t deduce it?”

            “No.” Sherlock’s tone remains serious. “Emotions are highly illogical. The same stimulus can provoke multiple reactions from a single person depending on various factors, and similar cues could mean a multitude of different things. Even assuming a reading was straightforward, masking or faking emotions is simple enough to do. It’s easier just to ask.”

            “But then someone could lie,” John points out. They’ve reached the counter.

            “True.” Sherlock pauses, glances at the menu, then pulls out his phone. “You can order for me, if you like. Nothing too heavy, please.”

            Presumably that means he’s going to eat without argument this time. John flashes a quick smile at the sub behind the counter, then scans the menu and orders a veg omelette for Sherlock and a bacon sandwich for himself. The food is handed over, and then, since the interior of the restaurant is a bit full, John leads them back outside to sit at one of the smaller tables.

            “Thank you,” Sherlock says as John hands him his plate. “It’s been a few days since I’ve had any protein.”

            “You’re w—days?” John asks incredulously. He can feel the first faint stirrings of Domspace creeping up on him, but they’re not the warm, calming ones that fill his veins with contentment and purpose. Rather, he feels tense, anxiety-stricken, as if he’s failed his sub, and he can feel his mind racing to figure out how best to rectify the situation as soon as possible. “Were you eating anything else all this time?”

            Sherlock waves a hand. “Oh, mostly simple sugars if I absolutely had to. Molly gave me some breakfast yesterday, but I don’t usually eat while on cases. Digestion slows me down.”

            “Digestion helps you think,” John contradicts him. “You need calories, energy.”

            “Another incentive to figure things out quickly,” Sherlock replies. He smiles as if he’s made a joke, but John just tilts his head and frowns. He remembers noting Sherlock’s litheness last night; he’s certainly not underweight, but he’d assumed that was the result of diet or exercise, not the purposeful avoidance of food.

            “If I hadn’t been forcing you to eat these past two days, how much would you have actually eaten?” John asks. Sherlock’s smile, already weak, immediately flips into a scowl and he stabs at his eggs with his fork.

            “My weight is within the normal limits for my height,” he replies scathingly. “You don’t have to _force_ me to eat. I know my limits and am perfectly capable of deciding when I will or will not feed myself.”

            As much as John prefers feisty Sherlock over meek, he needs to learn to pick his battles. In one fluid motion, John leans forward and grabs Sherlock’s wrist with the first two fingers and thumb of his right hand, pressing hard on the pulse point. Sherlock jerks, then goes still.

            “I told you not fifteen minutes ago that I do not let my subs harm themselves,” John says, voice low. “This counts as hurting yourself. Nutrient deficiencies are not something to play around with.”

            “I’m not an idiot,” Sherlock bites back. His fingers curl inwards, as if to make a fist, but he makes no move to either pull away or swing a punch, so John ignores it for now.

            “Why do you do it, then?” he demands. “If you know it’s bad for you, and you’re such a bloody genius, why?”

            Sherlock’s mouth contorts through several positions, but he doesn’t seem to be able to decide on an emotion, much less a response. At last he tries to pull his wrist out of John’s grip; John lets him go immediately, but it doesn’t seem to relieve Sherlock any: he sits back in his chair, arms tucked about himself protectively, and glares at the ground, steadfastly ignoring both John and his food.

            As the seconds tick by and Sherlock makes no sign that he’s going to speak, John begins to feel more and more uneasy. He doesn’t think he’s hurt Sherlock (he hadn’t been holding him that tightly, nor is Sherlock worrying a possible wound), and he’d watched his dialogue this time, but Sherlock’s behaviour is disturbing.

            Has he hit a trigger? Something about food, about Sherlock making poor decisions? Insinuating that he can’t take care of himself? God, how does he keep managing to fuck up this badly? John hesitates, unwilling to break the silence, but Sherlock’s well-being is more important than his ego.

            “Did I go too far?” he asks, keeping his voice quiet. Sherlock glances up at him momentarily but says nothing.

            “Grabbing you like that. Was that too much?”

            “I’m fine,” Sherlock snaps. He doesn’t provide any more information, though, leaving John even more bewildered. He fiddles with his sandwich, tearing off a piece of the bacon that’s sticking out from between the bread, then lifts his head to squint through the front window into the café. There are takeaway boxes sitting on the counter.

            “I’ll be right back,” he says. That makes Sherlock look up at him properly, but John’s already standing and going inside to ask the sub at the counter for two boxes.

            “We’re going to go upstairs,” John tells Sherlock as he comes back outside, offering the containers. “Because I think we need to have a conversation, and I think you’d prefer to be in private when we have it, is that right?”

            Sherlock stares. His lips part as if he’s about to speak, but he says nothing and after a minute he simply accepts the boxes and puts the food away. John returns the plates, then gestures for Sherlock to follow him back inside 221B. Maybe, this time, he’s _finally_ managed to do something right.

 

* * *

 

            Stupid, _stupid._ Sherlock squeezes the box of food in his hands, crumpling the corners of the Styrofoam as he follows John up the stairs towards the flat.

            He’d thought, after the mishap from last night, that he’d learned what not to do in order to not upset John. He’d resolved to watch his tongue and to be polite, to limit his deductions to non-John-related topics as much as possible, to be obedient, unobtrusive, passive… He’d known it was likely he’d slip up—it was rare for him to go five minutes in any social situation and not make _some_ kind of faux pas—but intent would get him somewhere, and John had proved himself to be fairly flexible besides.

            But then he’d gone and made a throwaway line, saying what came to mind without filtering, and John had gotten concerned.

            _Of course he was going to get concerned,_ Sherlock chastises himself. They’ve reached the half-landing, and he finds himself studying the tears in the hideous wallpaper as an alternative to the tense lines of John’s shoulders under his (rather flattering) jumper. _He’s a doctor. You hardly treat your body the way the manual suggests; it wasn’t going to take long before you clashed heads._

            But it’s none of John’s business, another part of him objects—Sherlock is not underweight, not diseased, not malnourished in any way. He’s been taking care of himself for a long time. John’s only known him for two days; what gives him the right to dictate how Sherlock treats his body?

            Oh, it’s so ridiculously frustrating. And then of course he’d had to go and lose his temper with John. Even though there really had been no reason for John to order Sherlock about in regards to his diet, it was hardly proper sub behaviour to snap at him the way he had. At the very worst, John would have ordered him to make a change and Sherlock would have said “yes, John” like an obedient little sub and then gone home and done absolutely nothing different. He’d done it before.

            _Games lose their savour when participants decline to play by the rules,_ Mycroft reminds him as they reach the door to the flat proper. _Remember your friend Victor?_

            Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Victor had been an experiment, a test subject for Sherlock to use as he explored which aspects of the Dom/sub dynamic he preferred. He’d been rather resilient, all told, bowing to Sherlock’s repeated uses of his safeword and mercurial moods without complaint, but had ultimately been a disappointment when he’d left after learning that his orders were disregarded the moment he left Sherlock’s flat.

            Sherlock knows that this situation is different, not least because he and John have not yet entered into a formal agreement, but things are certainly progressing that way, and even though John seems less angry at this transgression than he’d been last night, that doesn’t mean that punishment isn’t in order to establish John’s future Dominance.

            At last, the door opens and John turns around to face him, face inscrutable. “Sit. Please.”

            Sherlock waits a moment longer, just in case John will express a preference as to where, but when there are no further instructions he settles himself in the blue-cushioned armchair by the fireplace and puts his takeaway box on the floor by his feet. John rolls his eyes and scoops it up, placing it and his own food on the little side table by the other armchair before moving through into the kitchen.

            “Tea?” he calls without looking back.

            “…All right.” Sherlock’s not particularly in the mood, but it’s a harmless acquiescence. He leans back in his chair and takes a moment to study the flat as the banging sounds of kettle and mugs filter in from the kitchen.

            The living room is quaint enough, with no obvious clues as to the dynamic of its owner. Sherlock has seen inelegant and un-tasteful displays of crops and floggers in the homes of several Dominants over the years (as well as in the drawer of one memorable submissive-switch); he has seen frankly disturbing collections of collars, put together by subs who were seemingly unable to function without at least a facsimile of a Dom in their lives; he’s even seen simple choices in décor that, although not completely drawing a line between Dominant and submissive, tend to sway him to either side when he’s in doubt.

            But there’s nothing here. 221B Baker Street is a pleasantly cluttered flat with almost more furniture than can comfortably fit in it and so many books that the shelves are bending under their weight. The colours run neither too dark and imposing nor too gentle and pastel. There’s no explicitly designed sub or slave room that Sherlock can see (although there’s still the upstairs that he hasn’t explored, so he can’t rule that out yet), and there are no conveniently-placed hooks or rings in the walls on which to attach chains.

            Granted, it’s a rented flat and not a permanent residence, so some effort must have gone into keeping it palatable for those of any persuasion, and Mrs Hudson must have some rules about what can and cannot be added to the architecture, but Sherlock finds himself approving the lack of dynamic touches. It’s rather comforting.

            “How do you take it?” John calls from the other room. It takes Sherlock a few seconds to remember what he’s talking about.

            “Sugar, no milk,” he finally replies. He hopes John won’t be too angry if he doesn’t drink it. His lower stomach feels tied in knots, and no matter how much he studies the comfortable-looking tartan chair across from him or the absurdly clean fireplace, he can’t get it to unravel.

            What is John planning? He’s never had a Dom make him tea before a punishment before. Idly, the thought occurs to him that the tea could _be_ the punishment—hot liquid does have several potent applications, after all—but he dismisses it fairly quickly. While John’s hardly a traditionalist, he also doesn’t seem the type to make tea under the pretence of drinking it only to turn around and dump it in someone’s lap (or worse).

            “What are you thinking about?”

            John’s voice comes from nearby his elbow and Sherlock jerks back, startled. A strange emotion flits across John’s face—quickly replaced by an apologetic smile—but before Sherlock can analyse it, John’s handed him his tea and gone to settle himself in the other armchair.

            “Well?” John asks. He sounds perfectly calm. Sherlock fiddles with the handle of his teacup.

            “A great many things,” he replies vaguely, not meeting John’s eyes. John snorts.

            “Obviously, since it’s you. Can you tell me maybe one of them?”

            The tea is still too hot to drink. Sherlock puts the cup back in its saucer and places the whole thing on one of the arms of the chair.

            “I was trying to decide why you brought me up here.” That’s not the whole truth, but John’s fairly intelligent. He waits, fingertips in front of his mouth.

            “I told you we had to talk,” John says, a bit confusedly. “What else did you think I meant?”

            Either John is extraordinarily dense, or he wants Sherlock to spell it out. Both options make Sherlock’s lip curl in distaste, but he supposes he can consider it part of the punishment. Of course it’s not going to be pleasant.

            “You wanted us to be alone,” he points out. “I assumed you were going to scold me or administer some other punishment for talking back to you. I do appreciate us doing this in private, you were right about that, but for future reference, I don’t enjoy this sort of humiliation, even for punishments.”

            John tilts his head, a line appearing between his brows as he studies Sherlock. “Pity,” he says, a bit blankly, as if his mind is running along another track entirely. “I think it does you a world of good to work it all out aloud. But why do you think I’m going to punish you when I haven’t even claimed you yet?”

            An odd stabbing sensation slams into Sherlock’s chest at his words, even as his cheeks burn and the pressure in his gut releases. He’s not—he hasn’t—? His mind races, replaying every second of dialogue, nuance of gesture that had led him to that conclusion.

            “ _My_ sub.” He glares at John as he says it, as if that can hide his obvious embarrassment, and crosses his arms tightly across his chest. “You’ve said twice today how you don’t let _your_ subs do specific things. Both times were in regards to something you don’t want me doing, either. Forgive me if I misunderstood you.”

            “That was to let you know what you were getting into,” John says. “More of last night, letting you know what the rules will be.” He’s set aside his tea, and now he runs his hands over his face in a gesture of frustration. Sherlock’s stomach goes cold.

            “I’m… sorry, John,” he says quietly, even as desperation beats hard in his chest. He keeps misunderstanding, upsetting John, and he can’t even be punished to set things right. Does that mean that John’s going to give him up as a lost cause? It’s only been two days, hardly any time in the grand scheme of things, but after seeing what John _is,_ what John _means,_ the possibility is too repugnant to bear.

            He won’t allow it.

            “Sherlock.”

            Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face; John looks absolutely miserable. Except there’s more there than frustration, more than disappointment or sadness; there’s _pity,_ and then, suddenly, Sherlock _knows._

            “She told you.” He should feel angry, betrayed—Molly had managed to keep it a secret from _Mycroft_ , of all people; how difficult could it have been to keep it from someone like John, someone barely a part of their lives?—yet he can’t find it in himself to muster anything besides a fatigued resignation.

            “No, she didn’t,” John replies quietly. “She told me she fosters submissives, and I guessed that you were abused. You’ve all but confirmed it just now, though.”

            Silence stretches between them. After a minute Sherlock picks up his tea and takes a sip, uncaring that it’s still so hot it scalds his tongue and upper lip. John would be angry with him if he knew, but it’s fine and besides, he really does owe John _some_ sort of penance for being so taxing, however small.

            “You mustn’t let this ruin things between us, John,” he says, placing his cup back in its saucer. “It’s an unpleasant truth, but I’m hardly damaged. It was a long time ago. I’m still capable of providing you with whatever you’d like in a sub.”

            “Whatever I’d like,” John repeats. He crosses his legs and rests his chin on a fist, levelling Sherlock with a heady stare. “You realize this is a partnership, not an ownership.”

            “Of course.” Sherlock waves away the objection. “But my limits haven’t been affected by it; there’s no need for us to restrict ourselves.”

            “There’s also no reason for us to do things that neither of us like,” John contradicts him. “This isn’t about checking things off a list, Sherlock, it’s about us building a relationship together out of things that we enjoy.”

            “A… relationship.” Sherlock’s mouth feels dry as he stares at John, eyes wide. He doesn’t want to assume, not again, but something feels different this time. John wouldn’t throw that word around, now that he knows what it means. “So, you do still want to—?”

            A light flush blooms in John’s cheeks, but he doesn’t back down. Rather, he lifts his head a bit higher and straightens his shoulders.

            “Well, god knows we’ve got a lot of negotiating to do,” he replies, “but yeah. If you’re willing, I’d like to… like to have you.” His blush deepens, but a certain shine has come into his eyes, and Sherlock isn’t quite sure what to say. He’s never had a Dom proposition him before, at least not seriously (he doesn’t count drunk come-ons and clumsy attempts at seduction). Every time he’s had a deliberate encounter or relationship, he’s always been the one to make the first move, to propose the game and all of its rules. Now John is in control, and yet…

            Somehow, he doesn’t feel as trapped as he’d expected.

            “I’ll.” Sherlock swallows. “I’ll talk to Molly.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'll admit right off the bat that I was not happy about the beginning of this chapter. The way I ended the last one was not how I intended, and several times I wanted to go back and rewrite it to get this redirected the way I wanted. I ended up deciding to keep it the way it is, however, and I think the rest of the chapter turned out all right. I'm very excited to finally get back into the case after promising it for so many chapters now, and I'm also happy to finally get the Johnlock train moving. I can't believe it's 50,000+ words now and still not quite there. Thank you all so much for your patience in reading this- it's a joy seeing your responses every time I post something new. :)
> 
> I will do my best to get the next chapter out within a month as usual, but I'll be leaving to study in Spain in two weeks and things may be hectic around the end of September. I don't know where I'll be living or what my internet access will be like- I'll let you know on my profile, as usual, about my progress.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter.

            As soon as the door closes behind Sherlock, John leans forward to bury his face in his hands and tries in vain to suppress the miniscule tremors that have taken over his body.

            He’s said it. He’s told Sherlock he wants him as his sub, as ridiculous as that is to admit after only two days of knowing each other. While part of him is relieved that Sherlock hadn’t turned him down immediately, the rest of him knows that Sherlock ought to; he’d told Sherlock just last night that he wanted their relationship to proceed slowly, and now here he is, proposing a contract. If John can’t be consistent in his wishes before they even get together, how can Sherlock trust that he’s going to be any more stable when it actually matters?

            And he can’t blame it on Sherlock. It’s no excuse that Sherlock is beautiful, or a genius, or utterly fascinating. It’s no excuse that he’s vulnerable, that John only wants to protect him and help him heal. He’s better than his instincts, and he has to act that way. On the other hand, it’s hardly fair to Sherlock to extend an offer of a relationship and then snatch it away minutes later. That would damage his trust in John even further, and possibly ruin their chance at any sort of relationship at all.

            _I’m sorry, sir, but I’m just looking for a spot of fun. I don’t need a lovesick dog hanging at my heels._

            “John?”

            Sherlock’s back. John lifts his head to look at him, standing awkwardly in the doorway, mobile in one hand, and forces a smile. “Hey. What did Molly say?”

            Sherlock ignores the question and pads a few steps closer (he’s taken off his shoes, John notes absently). “Have you changed your mind?”

            John’s smile, already weak, breaks completely and he tilts his head. “Why would I have changed my mind?”

            “You don’t look overly pleased at the prospect of having me,” Sherlock replies. “You’ve had several minutes to think about your decision and let the emotional significance sink in, yet rather than watch the door and wait for me to return, your reaction was to look as though you were in pain.” He hesitates, and his shoulders hunch inwards slightly as if he’s trying to make himself look smaller. “If you regret asking, I—”

            “Don’t,” John says, and Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut. “I don’t regret it, or at least not in the way you’re thinking. I just…” He doesn’t quite know how to phrase this, but Sherlock’s watching him with an air of utter incomprehension and he needs to come up with _something._ “I just don’t think I should have said it so soon.”

            Sherlock shakes his head slowly. “I don’t understand. Why is that a problem? I assure you, I don’t mind. I’m ready to start anytime you wish.”

            John resists the urge to sigh. “I’m sure you are. But what did Molly have to say about it when you asked her? She must have had an opinion.”

            Sherlock’s mouth pulls to the side. “She… did state her reservations about the speed at which we’re doing this, yes.”

            There. That could help. That gives them a reason to pull back that won’t put the blame on either of them; John’s not incompetent, Sherlock’s not too damaged to move forward.

            Except Sherlock suddenly takes another step towards John and falls to his knees so fluidly that there’s hardly a thud on the floorboards. His eyes are sharp, focused on John’s own, and John finds that he can no longer breathe.

            “You just said,” he protests weakly, but another headshake from Sherlock quiets him.

            “She said signing a contract at this point would be foolish,” Sherlock murmurs, voice deeper than John’s ever heard it. “She never told me I couldn’t submit to you.” He leans forward, baring his neck to John. “I’m consenting; what would you have me do?”

            And God, John wants nothing more than to take him in hand, grab his wrists, pin him down and kiss him, but Sherlock’s words can’t hide the fact that his shoulders are tense and his fingers are trembling where they’re clenched on top of his thighs. If they’re going to do this (and John supposes they will be, since Sherlock doesn’t look like he’s going to take no for an answer at this point), John needs to soothe him first.

            Sherlock jerks at the first touch of John’s hand on his neck—it’s an aborted movement, as though he’s trying to reign in his natural reaction—and while it sends a pang through John’s stomach, he doesn’t respond. He simply keeps his hand there, unmoving except for a slow, steady brush of his thumb over Sherlock’s nape.

            Bit by bit, Sherlock’s breathing settles. He rolls his neck slightly, stretching out the kinks. His shoulders inch downwards. John takes that as a go-ahead and begins to apply more pressure, careful to avoid the bandage as he sweeps across Sherlock’s upper back in broad strokes. After a few minutes have passed, Sherlock finally seems free of tension and John takes his hands away.

            “Good,” he murmurs. “Now, did you have anything in mind for what you wanted me to do to you? I remember you telling me you weren’t a fan of pain.”

            Sherlock’s shoulders twitch in a lazy shrug. “Depends on the pain,” he replies. His words haven’t quite gotten slurred yet (not that John was expecting them to—if he’d managed to send a sub into ‘space that quickly, he’d be amazed), but his normally careful consonants have relaxed a bit. “What were you thinking of?”

            John _tsks_ and shakes his head, even though Sherlock’s head is still down and his eyes are closed. “What I’m thinking of isn’t the point, Sherlock. We didn’t make a plan for this. If we’re going to have a good first scene together, I’m going to need your help. Right now, right this moment, what do you want? What would give you the most pleasure?”

            The space between Sherlock’s eyebrows creases and his shoulders begin to hunch up again. “I don’t—”

            _Of course he doesn’t know. God, he’s probably never been asked that question before._ “Sh,” John soothes, keeping his voice carefully neutral, gentle. “It’s all right. You don’t have to know. Turn around and I’ll just touch you a little bit more.”

            Sherlock does so, slowly, without opening his eyes. Once his back is toward John, John rests one hand on each shoulder and rubs at the muscle with his thumbs. They’ve tensed up again, and John’s face falls. What does Sherlock think he’s going to do? He slides his palms over the smooth fabric of Sherlock’s jacket and debates asking him to take it off. Under different circumstances he would—there’s a fair bit of fabric between his hands and Sherlock’s skin—but ultimately he decides against it. They don’t need that complication right now.

            “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, and then digs with his fingertips into the dip between Sherlock’s shoulder and collarbone. The surprised moan Sherlock makes in response startles him at first and he falters, but then Sherlock is pressing backwards into his fingers and, emboldened, John continues kneading.

            Sherlock’s shoulders and upper back are a complete mess of knots and tension. John believes he would really be better served by visiting a proper masseuse, but there are no complaints as he works steadily down Sherlock’s spine. In fact, as he works on one particularly stubborn knot on Sherlock’s right side, he hears something remarkably similar to a purr: heavy breathing, coming from deep in Sherlock’s throat, with a gentle vibration on the exhale. The sound sends such a feeling of wonder through him that he lets out a breathless laugh ( _he_ made that sound, made Sherlock feel that good) and moves one of his hands to card lovingly through Sherlock’s curls. The sound stops almost immediately, however, and Sherlock tugs his head away with a soft noise of discontent. It’s a bit disappointing (John’s been wanting to touch that hair properly since the night they met, if he’s being honest), but he doesn’t object. It’s probably just too much sensation at one time. He returns his hand to Sherlock’s back.

 -

            God, pleasing John is so _easy._ Sherlock lets out another quiet sigh as John massages tenderly around the base of his neck and resettles himself more comfortably on his knees. John’s touch, light and tentative when he began, has grown confident and firm over the last few minutes and Sherlock can feel his eyelids growing heavy. If all it takes to stimulate John’s Dominance is a few well-timed noises and encouraging body language, perhaps this endeavour won’t be nearly as difficult as he’d imagined.

            Not that John’s touch is unpleasant, of course, far from it. Sherlock will admit he’d been a bit wary at first, acutely aware of the parity between this situation and the nightmare he’d had that morning, but John’s hands are skilled and he soon finds that it takes a considerable amount of effort to keep his bodily reactions under control.

            Carefully, so that John won’t observe the motion, Sherlock slips his thumb under the cuff of his jacket and digs his nail into the soft skin of his wrist. He needs to focus; John may be content with simply providing a massage for now, but if his desires change, Sherlock needs to be prepared. He needs to decide if John will want him hard and desirous or soft and yielding, and he needs to be able to get himself there at a moment’s notice for whatever John asks of him in this most important of scenes. He—oh. _Ohhhh…._ John’s knuckles press against a particularly tight knot and the wave of intense pleasure-pain brings down a fog of static over Sherlock’s brain, shutting out any other thought. He wants to moan—feels his throat contract—but he keeps himself quiet; he can’t make a sound but it’s good, so good… kind John, clever John to find where he hurts and make it better. He arches into the touch (must feel more, must be closer, so _good_ ), but then John laughs and grabs hold of his hair, and Sherlock’s blood freezes.

            What’s he done? He hasn’t said anything, hasn’t done anything to embarrass himself. He tries to regulate his breathing, the better to keep John unaware of his sudden change in mental state, but that’s when he notices. He’s _purring_. His cheeks flush with warmth and he quickly swallows, cutting off the hateful noise. God, how had he managed to start doing _that_ without meaning to? What must John think? Sherlock ducks his head forward, sliding out of John’s grip, but thankfully John says nothing about it and returns to his massage.

            Sherlock manages to keep himself still, for the most part, after that. The massage is still pleasant, but he _has_ just been jarred rather forcefully out of ‘space and can’t quite find the thread he needs to return to it. No matter. He knows how to simulate the response for John’s benefit, and there’s really no reason to be squirming around like a wanton in any case.

            Besides… Sherlock suppresses a twitch as John’s fingers skate over his lower ribs and forces himself to lean into the contact. It’s probably for the best. It doesn’t take much imagination to guess where John’s headed, and the more time he has to prepare himself mentally, the better. He doesn’t have enough background data on John to guess what act he will choose for their first, and he needs to gather as many clues as possible while he still can.

            “How are you feeling?” John whispers, leaning forward; the sensation of warm breath on the shell of his ear sends a (not _entirely_ unpleasant) shiver down Sherlock’s spine. “Everything okay?”

            Sherlock nods, without thinking, then immediately grimaces and mouths a silent curse. He’s meant to have been deep in subspace—for ten to fifteen minutes at least, if his count is accurate. It ought to have taken a good half a minute for him to have been able to parse the question, let alone respond. Stupid, _again._

            He waits, body tense, for John’s disapproval, but nothing comes. His hands have come to a halt—they lie, awkwardly, along Sherlock’s back—and the only sound in the room is his (now slightly irregular) breathing. Sherlock frowns, hesitates, then decides to test the waters. “John?”

            No response.

            That’s not right. John wouldn’t ignore him. Not now. Sherlock opens his eyes and turns around.

            John isn’t looking at him. Or, to be more accurate, he’s not looking at anything. His eyes are fixed at some indeterminate point in the distance and, now that his hands are no longer touching Sherlock’s back, they clench and unclench over his knees. His left hand is trembling.

            “John.” Sherlock studies John’s eyes carefully, but they show no indication that he’s been heard. What could be wrong? He grabs John’s arm. “ _John._ ”

            Without warning, John jerks backwards with enough force to startle Sherlock in turn, though not quite enough to pull his arm out of Sherlock’s grasp. His eyes dart around the room as if he’s never seen it before, his pulse pounding so hard Sherlock can see it in his neck. He opens his mouth to ask if John is all right, but the panic fades as quickly as it appeared and leaves John sagging against the back of the armchair, looking drained. It takes him a few tries to be able to speak.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers at last. He doesn’t elaborate.

            The silence doesn’t last very long before Sherlock grows impatient. “What for? You didn’t hurt me.”

            “I got lost. During our first scene.” John won’t meet Sherlock’s eyes, choosing instead to focus his attention on a loose thread on the arm of the chair. “Hardly a good start, is it?”

            Sherlock ignores the question. John obviously isn’t in Domspace anymore; in fact, judging by his self-deprecating language and edging-towards-submissive posture, he seems well below his baseline, more than simple disappointment or exhaustion would cause on their own. Interesting.

            “What were you thinking about?” Sherlock asks. “It wasn’t a flashback, or at least not a military one; there were no sudden stimuli that approximated gunfire in the last ten minutes, and I’m not bleeding. What triggered you?”

            “Triggered?” John shakes his head. (Dismissive, not uncomprehending. Hiding something.) “I’m fine, Sherlock, it’s not important. What _is_ important is that I was obviously doing something wrong. You weren’t in ‘space. At all.”

            Sherlock rears back as if he’s been slapped. _That’s_ what caused all this? He’s not surprised, honestly, that John managed to figure it out—it wasn’t as if he’d been very discreet at the end, after all—but for John to think that he hadn’t even made it to subspace in the first place? For it to make him that distressed? He’d only been trying to—

            It doesn’t matter.

            Sherlock finally releases John’s arm and slowly sinks back onto his heels, lowering his head until it’s well below John’s knees.

            He’s been a bad sub. A _very_ bad sub. Who is he, to try and anticipate his Master’s needs? He ought to have just let himself be taken without trying to fight it; at least that way John would have been pleased. At least that way his biology might have forced him to enjoy it, and then they wouldn’t be in this position, with John upset and it being all his fault.

            “Hey.” Two fingers tap on the bottom of his chin, but Sherlock refuses to look up. He doesn’t deserve eye contact, doesn’t deserve to be touched. He sent his Master into a flashback. He belongs on the floor, in a corner, somewhere far away—

            “Please, Sherlock, Let’s not both of us be in drop, now.”

            Drop? Sherlock’s brows furrow; is that what’s happening? He shakes his head forcefully to clear it. _Focus. You’re making a fool of yourself._ He manages to pull himself back up into something resembling a proper kneel, but just as he’s about to meet John’s eyes once again, the rest of John’s sentence hits him.

            “Both?” He fixes John with an inquisitive stare, though the effect is probably ruined by how poorly he can focus his eyes at the moment. “What do you mean, both? You can’t get drop, you’re a Dom.”

            It’s John’s turn to frown. “What are you talking about? Of course Doms can get drop, too—were you not listening during sex ed?”

            A hot flush starts to creep down the back of Sherlock’s neck but he refuses to look away. “I’d heard of it, obviously,” he retorts, “but since I never saw any manifestation of it I dismissed it as rumour and deleted it.” John’s face screws up in confusion at that, but Sherlock doesn’t give him the chance to ask. “What have you got to feel drop about, anyway?” he demands suddenly. A small voice in the back of his mind warns him that he should probably stop talking now, but he’s angry and indignant and the idea is absolutely _ludicrous_ and requires an explanation. “You’ve got the better end of the deal by far; you get to make all the rules and if the sub can’t obey, you punish them. At worst you don’t manage to get off, but that’s easy enough to fix if you’ve got the time.”

            John doesn’t say anything right away. He simply looks at Sherlock, lips pursed, and blinks a few times. He’s thinking—about what, Sherlock can’t tell (oh, he’s got a few ideas, but after this many mistakes in regards to John’s thought process, he doesn’t have any stable ground from which to deduce)—and after about a minute or so of scrutiny, he shifts his weight between his knees in an attempt to redirect the urge to duck his head. He’s starting to get the sneaking suspicion that he’s said something wrong yet again, and irritation and embarrassment are souring his stomach in equal measure.          

            “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, haven’t we?” John murmurs at last. His voice is gentle, almost pitying, and Sherlock’s cheeks burn in humiliation.

            He doesn’t understand. He’s not inexperienced, with sex or with Doms. He’s proven himself to be a competent sub, able to cater to his Doms’ whims and endure any scene, provided he’s in the mood. Hell, he’s even been able to regulate his own need for subspace over time, subverting it and ignoring it until it’s become almost as tame as his needs for food and sleep. He doesn’t need coddling; all he needs is a Dom with a firm hand to send him under once in a while to keep him sane. Wouldn’t any Dom appreciate that? Perhaps not if regular sexual release were an issue, but he _likes_ John, so there’s little and less he wouldn’t let John do to him if it meant that the arrangement they have would grow into something long-term and rewarding. So why does it seem as though he’s failing to live up to John’s expectations at every turn? Why does John have to be so damn _complicated?_

            “Am I not what you need?” John asks when Sherlock doesn’t reply. He sounds a bit sad, as well as resigned, but there’s no note of pleading in his voice, nothing that suggests that he’s trying to guilt Sherlock into staying. “I mean, you’re obviously used to a very… different type of Dom.” A muscle in his cheek twitches as he purposefully avoids the _a_ -word, but Sherlock appreciates the effort. “I think that you deserve better, of course, but if this isn’t going to work for you, I won’t be insulted if you want to stop.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snaps. “I’ve no intention of leaving. You’re moderately intelligent, you find my lifestyle highly appealing, and, despite your erroneous conclusions to the contrary, you have little difficulty provoking subspace in me. In any case,” he continues in a lighter tone, if only to get John to stop looking at him as though he’s said something profoundly sentimental, “you constantly surprise me. That’s enough of a reason to keep you around.”

            The colour has come back rather spectacularly to John’s face during Sherlock’s little monologue, and as he stops, John’s expression melts slowly into something so tender that it forces Sherlock to avert his eyes.

            “Don’t say anything,” he orders. He knows it must look ridiculous, him on his knees and telling John what to do, but he’s played too many of his cards too quickly and the best thing to do now is just to leave it and hope it’s forgotten in due course. “Look, you said you were in drop. Is there anything you want me to, I mean, that I can—”

            He’s interrupted by a harsh, complicated buzzing that cycles through several different patterns before falling silent and he closes his eyes heavily. Of _course_ he would choose now to text. “May I answer that?” he asks. “It’s rather important.”

            “Sure, go ahead.” John gestures awkwardly and leans back in his chair, watching as Sherlock slides his phone out of his shirt pocket and swipes his finger across the screen to unlock it. He seems a bit surprised when Sherlock turns the screen off again a moment later, however. “Done already?”

            Sherlock shrugs. “It only needed my initials.”

            John frowns. “Who was it?”

            Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. Must they pursue this? He’s practically offering John sex on a silver platter and all John wants to talk about is his bloody phone. “Lestrade. Now, as I was saying—”

            “Was it about the case?” John persists. “I saw you texting earlier, but… I don’t remember it vibrating that way.”

            Apparently they _are_ going to be talking about this. Splendid. Sherlock sighs and shifts on his knees. The hardwood floor is nice to look at, but it’s starting to pinch. “May I sit in a chair?”

            “Of course. Are you hurting?”

            Sherlock waves away the concern. “I’m fine.” He stands and stretches a bit (mostly for John’s benefit) before taking a seat in the other armchair. “In answer to your question, no, it was not about the case. At least not this time. He did try to talk to me while we were getting lunch, but I told him I was busy, and what he had to tell me wasn’t particularly interesting, anyway. Of course, once I told him I was busy, he guessed I was seeing you again. He… insisted on a safe text.” His nose twitches. “A bit juvenile, I do apologize, but he takes it upon himself to do these things.”

            “I don’t mind. You did tell him you were safe?”

            “That’s what my initials were for,” Sherlock replies, a bit miffed. “That is rather the point.”

            “Good.” John smiles. “I’d hope you feel safe with me.”

            Sherlock isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. He looks down at his hands, fidgeting in his lap, then stills them. “John… I _am_ willing to submit to you, properly, if that will help with your version of drop. I’d like to make up for earlier.”

            “You don’t have anything to make up for,” John corrects him. “That was my fault—I got upset when I noticed you weren’t in ‘space, but I should have been in better control of myself. I’m sorry about that.”

            Sherlock sighs again and taps his fingers against the worn leather of the chair. “I did tell you that you’re perfectly capable of sending me under. The massage did its job just fine. I simply became… distracted, as well.” He pauses, then glances up at John from under his eyelashes. “Do you want to talk about it? Everybody I know insists on talking about things, so it must do some good.”

            John laughs quietly, without humour. “You’d think me an utter shit Dom.”

            “Try me,” Sherlock challenges him, but John’s already shaking his head.

            “I’ll tell you what I was thinking about just now,” he says, “but the rest of it has to wait. Unless you feel like spilling your guts to me when I’m done.”

            Sherlock lifts the corner of his mouth slightly. “Point.”

            “It’s really nothing all that bad,” John continues. “I don’t know why it keeps coming back to me. You were right, it’s nothing to do with the war. Rather, it’s… about a sub I had before I left. Keira.” He takes a deep breath, blows it out between pursed lips. “It wasn’t supposed to be anything serious. And it wasn’t. We made an informal contract, went at it, and… it was fun.” He shrugs. “Very kinky, very fun. No-strings-attached sort of stuff.”

            “But then you got attached,” Sherlock predicts. He must admit he’s a bit curious to know what sorts of _kinky_ things John likes—always useful information to know about one’s Dom—but now’s not the time to ask. Another, quieter, part of him begins to pace restlessly at the information; that part he resolutely ignores. Now’s not the time for that, either.

            “Well, yes and no.” John’s silent for a good minute as he thinks about what to say. “I wanted to be a good Dom for her. I wanted her to enjoy what we did together, even if we weren’t planning on a long term relationship. So I started looking into techniques, researching what was better, safer, more pleasurable for the sub…” His lips tighten. “She took it the wrong way.”

            “She laughed at you,” Sherlock breathes. “Humiliated you for caring.”

            “She called me lovesick.” John annunciates his words very carefully. “But that’s not even the worst of it.” He pauses again, fingers laced before his mouth. “The thing that ended it, the last scene that we did. Tried.” He clears his throat. “I knew we were going down, but I wanted to try something new, something fun I’d read about online. Ponyplay, it was called. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I bought a couple things, told her to undress and blindfold herself so I could put them on her. She let me, and I thought it was going great. I led her around the flat for a bit, _putting her through her paces_ and all that, and she wasn’t saying anything. I felt so proud—thought I’d gotten her under and that it’d been a success. Then I looked at her.”

            Sherlock’s stomach sinks. “And she wasn’t.”

            “Not at all,” John agrees. “That was when she laughed.”

            The two of them sit in awkward silence for a few moments, John’s eyes on his knees and Sherlock’s on John.

            Talking about it can’t have helped. John’s face is still pinched, the lines on his forehead and around his mouth are more defined than before. He doesn’t look like how Sherlock feels when he’s in drop, he doesn’t look wretched, but he does look as if all his energy has been sapped away, and Sherlock doesn’t know how to put it back.

            If it were a sub in front of him, the cure for drop would be obvious: find a Dom, a trusted one, and have them sit with the sub and whisper meaningless reassurances in their ear until the sub felt better. Maybe in a pinch Sherlock himself could provide a blanket and cup of hot chocolate or something similar, or try an approach like the one he has for Lestrade, but he hasn’t the faintest idea what reassures Doms. What _pleases_ them, he could write a research paper on, but…

            Perhaps the two are similar? Asking John for a scene or to expend energy on a sexual act would probably be considered rude, since both take a considerable amount of mental energy and inspiration which John obviously does not have at the moment, but what if Sherlock were to take control? Well, he _says_ take control. He would do what John wanted, obviously; John would only have to say the word, and it would be done. He’d like that, wouldn’t he?

            Sherlock slips out of his chair and back onto his knees, shuffling forward until he’s close enough to rest his chin on John’s thigh. The pinch of the wood returns quicker this time, but Sherlock ignores it; John’s eyes meet his, now, curious and silent. Watchful.

            “Please, John,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice as low and seductive as he can make it. “What would you like me to do?” He brings up a hand and begins to caress the outside seam of John’s jeans. The rasp of denim beneath his nail is loud in his ears, but John doesn’t seem to hear it. “What would help?”

            John doesn’t reply at first. Slowly, he lifts a hand and nestles it in Sherlock’s hair, his thumb just brushing over Sherlock’s ear, then leans forward. Sherlock’s tongue darts out to lick at his lips reflexively, but John doesn’t attempt to kiss him.

            “I want you to make me a list,” John whispers. His eyes, blue and dark, burn into Sherlock’s. “Of everything you like, everything you don’t like. Everything you want us to do, and what you never even want me to talk about. Make me that list, and bring it back here. Do you understand?”

            “J—” Sherlock’s mouth has gone dry again. He clears his throat. “You want me to make you a list?”

            “Yes. What of?”

            Sherlock looks at him warily. John’s expression does not change. “What I do and do not want to do.”

            “And what do you do and do not enjoy,” John reminds him. “That’s just as important.”

            Sherlock doesn’t understand. It’s fairly obvious that John is taking the first steps towards building their contract, but why bring it up now? He’s still in drop, isn’t he? He pulls backwards slightly, and John lets him.

            “Why don’t you want me to service you?” he asks. “I’m perfectly willing if it will help, I’ve said that three times now.”

            “I know.” John leans back in the chair and rests his head on a fist as he looks at Sherlock thoughtfully. “And I’m flattered, believe me, but there’s a difference between a massage and an actual scene. We haven’t written a contract yet, and you don’t even have a safeword. I only know a couple of your limits. We may have agreed that I’ll take you on, but until we’ve both signed that little piece of paper, it’s not responsible of me to let you submit the way you were intending to.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure that’s not what you’re used to.”

            “No.” Sherlock sits back on his heels, removing his hand from where it still rests on John’s thigh. His palm tingles. “When do you want the list by?”

            “Whenever you think you’re done writing it,” John answers. “I’ll be writing one too, but don’t think you have to finish when I do.”

            “And you won’t let me submit to you until I’ve written it?”

            “I’d prefer to wait, yeah,” John says. “If you think it’ll take you a while we can work something out for the meantime—”

            “No, it’s all right,” Sherlock interrupts. “I’m sure I can get it done in a day or two.”

            John looks as though he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it and shrugs. “Okay, then. Whatever you like. For now, though—” he jerks his thumb at the (now cold) takeaway boxes. “Would you like me to heat that up for you? You never did get to eat.”

            Sherlock doesn’t reply. His phone is buzzing again, not in the complicated manner that signifies Lestrade’s personal number, but rather the strong, uninterrupted vibration that means, hopefully, there’s been a new lead on the case. He takes his phone out of his pocket and swipes across the screen; John murmurs a question but Sherlock doesn’t hear it—the word that flashes up at him narrows his vision and dulls his hearing until there is only the deep thud of blood in his ears and the crystal clear thread of _howcleverperfect_ in his mind.

            He stands, abruptly, straightening out his jacket and brushing off his trousers. John looks up at him, eyes focused.

            “What is it?”

            “We’re going to Scotland Yard,” Sherlock replies, and holds out his mobile so that John can read the text.

            _Your killer is a sub._


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone. I'm really grateful for your patience in waiting for this chapter; traveling to and getting settled in Spain has been a bit stressful and hectic, and I haven't really gotten a lot of time to just sit down and write until this week. Also, if you've looked at my profile recently, you'll know that I've also gotten an idea for a new fic, which I hope to write in tandem with this one (though it'll be a while before I upload the first chapter of that one- I need to solidify some points, as it is another AU and I want to make sure I've got everything straight).
> 
> The ending of this chapter isn't really where I wanted it to be, but I also just wanted to give you all something since it had been so long. I hope you enjoy it.

            “Who told you?” Sherlock demands the moment they step foot inside Lestrade’s office. “How did you know the killer was a submissive?”

            “Vic told us,” Lestrade replies. He seems utterly at ease with and unruffled by Sherlock’s complete lack of manners, and John wonders, not for the first time, how long the two have known each other.

            “Hello again, Doctor Watson.” Lestrade holds out his hand for John to shake; he seems a bit surprised to see John again, but the gesture is polite enough, and his eyes are bright and friendly. It’s a welcome relief after Angelo’s suspicion last night, and John gives him a respectful nod as their hands part.

            “We went to the hospital and looked up the names you gave us,” Lestrade tells him. “You were right, they didn’t want to talk at first, but we finally managed to convince one of them when we promised we could put him under witness protection.” He ignores Sherlock’s snort of derision and gestures at the chairs in front of his desk. “Do you two wanna sit down? This might take a while.”

            Sherlock huffs out a sigh of impatience but flops down dramatically into the left-hand seat. John takes his own without a fuss.

            “How did a sub manage to infiltrate a gay club for Dominants, anyway?” he asks Lestrade. “I imagine they’ve got to show ID.”

            “ID isn’t the difficult part,” Sherlock corrects him. “No, what’s much more interesting is how she managed to fake it long enough to snare a Dom and carry out a scene. When did the Dom figure out her dynamic?”

            “Near the end, he said,” Lestrade replies. He eyes John curiously but keeps on track. “They’d clashed heads about three times, and she’d won every time, but he figured she was getting tired and he wanted to finish the night on top, so to speak. So, he tries command voice again, gives it all he’s got, and she goes down. Bare neck and everything.” He sighs heavily. “Predictably, he gets pissed. Yells at her, hits her—eventually something must’ve gotten her back online, ‘cause she pinned him down and threatened him with the knife they’d been playing with. Of course the little bastard couldn’t keep his mouth shut and kept egging her on. Finally, she sliced him up and then sat on him ‘til he passed out from blood loss.” He’s quiet for a moment. “The kid gave us a description, but it won’t get us too far. Said she wore one of those burlesque style eye masks that covered half her face. Everything else describes half the women in London.”

            Sherlock swings his chair from side to side, fingertips fluttering under his chin. “She wasn’t anticipating being caught out while still at the club,” he murmurs, more to himself than either John or Lestrade. “Normally, the Bradley case notwithstanding, she kills in the streets. The wounds on the bodies are precise; the victim doesn’t know until it’s too late that they’re about to be killed. This was in the heat of the moment.” He glances over at John. “How were the wounds on the ones you saved?”

            He says it nonchalantly, but John still feels a tingle of pride shoot down his spine and straightens up a bit in his chair.

            “Rougher,” he says. “The ones on your corpses look more like stab wounds, but these were slashes. Same general placement, so she knew where to go to cause the most blood loss, but she certainly wasn’t careful about it.”

            “Knows how to kill, more or less, but can’t always be bothered.” Sherlock looks up at the ceiling. “So a temper. Can’t always control it; that’s what got her into this mess in the first place. But what is she so angry ab—” his voice cuts off abruptly and he stares, lips parted and eyes wide, off into the distance. “ _Oh._ ”

            “What is it? What’s the matter?” Lestrade demands. “What’d you see?”

            “What kind of scenes did they engage in?” Sherlock asks, ignoring Lestrade. “We know that all the victims have knife wounds, so bloodplay is obvious, but what else? Anything?”

            Lestrade shifts uncomfortably. “Just what you’d expect: rough stuff. Some burns, some whipping, some… tearing.” John winces, but Sherlock only frowns.

            “They engaged in intercourse? I thought clubs generally frowned upon that sort of thing.”

            “Depends on the club,” Lestrade replies. “This one hands out condoms at the door and at the bar, so they let it slide. Not all of the victims showed signs of penetration, though. Apparently she enjoys power plays as well. But what about it? Why’s it important?”

            “I see.” Sherlock’s eyes keep moving, darting between obscure points of data on an invisible screen. “And do these victims have the same profile as those who died?”

            “I didn’t look into their families,” Lestrade replies. “There wasn’t time. But they’re certainly bigoted enough.”

            That catches John’s attention. “Bigoted? Against…?”

            “Subs,” Sherlock answers distractedly. “All of the victims come from fairly conservative families yet identify as homosexual. As a result, they have a very _interesting_ attitude towards submissives. They have to feign attraction where none exists, which leads to resentment. Then, as people do, they gather to share and spread their opinions. It seems as if this sub has taken offense to that.” He slides his palms against each other, prodding at the muscles with his fingertips. “The question that remains is _why._ ” Suddenly he springs into motion, leaping up from his chair towards the door. “Lestrade, you have the address of the club they all attended. Text me. Come along, John.”

            “Hang on a minute.” John looks from Lestrade, who seems rather unconcerned about the whole affair, to Sherlock, who’s visibly impatient to get underway. “You’re going to go after a murderer?”

            “Well, not tonight, obviously,” Sherlock says as if John’s being extraordinarily dense. “There’s still reconnaissance work to do. But yes, once we’ve gotten a better idea of her habits and timetable, we can better predict when to stake out the club.”

            John raises his eyebrows. “You want me to come with you?”

            Sherlock pauses. It’s brief, very brief, and then he’s tossing his head and drawing himself up another unnecessary inch or so in height, but John can tell that it’s more posturing than a true challenge. “Problem?”

            Does he _really_ think he’s misjudged John’s interest in this? John shakes his head emphatically. “Not a problem at all. It’s only—” he turns to Lestrade again, because really, he’s the police, and shouldn’t _Sherlock_ be asking him if this mad idea is even legal? “You’re all right with this?”

            Lestrade shrugs. “He’ll do it whether I like it or not. I just keep an eye on my phone and come when he calls. But you won’t get in trouble if you tag along, if that’s what you’re asking.” His eyes meet Sherlock’s and he smiles teasingly. “I trust you.”

            Well. That’s. “Thank you.” John blinks rapidly, wracking his brains to try and figure out just what he’s done in the last twenty-four hours to earn Lestrade’s approval, but before he can say anything else, Sherlock sighs again, impatiently.

            “Yes, fine, good, we can all be ridiculously sentimental about this later. Come _along_ , John, there’s no time to lose.”

            Throwing an apologetic smile at Lestrade, John stands from his chair and follows Sherlock, who’s already whisked himself out of the office and halfway across the floor.

            “What’s the rush?” he asks once he’s caught up. “It’s not even two yet; they won’t be open for hours.”

            “I know.” Sherlock presses the button for the lift then stuffs his hands into his coat pockets. “I just needed to get away from Lestrade. He’s being unbearably smug.”

            John glances back towards Lestrade’s office. He hadn’t noticed anything too out of the ordinary, but then he’s not Sherlock. “Smug? What about?”

            “You.” The lift dings, and Sherlock shoulders his way past two Dom officers to get to the back. John’s placating smile is, predictably, ignored, and with a shrug he leans in close to Sherlock so that he can whisper into his ear.

            “Me?” he asks, sceptical. “What have I got to do with anything?”

            “You’re a Dom,” Sherlock whispers back. “Just yesterday, before I realised how much you enjoyed my work, I told Lestrade that I’d sworn off Doms for good. Obviously that’s no longer true, but he doesn’t have to look so superior about it.”

            The lift stops a few floors down, letting the two Doms off, but John isn’t paying attention to them anymore. Rather, he stares at Sherlock, head tilted in disbelief. (Also a little bit in awe, if he’s being honest, and pain, too.) Sherlock was willing— _planning_ —to subject himself to the worst kind of misery, forever, until John—John!—came along and praised him and said his work was amazing. His throat constricts with emotion and he has to look away for a moment.

            “He’s probably _happy_ for you,” John says, once he feels as though he can speak again. “Look, he’s a sub too, isn’t he? Don’t you think he’d be the last person to want you to be saddled with a Dom just because?”

            Sherlock refuses to look at him, his eyes steadfast on the blinking floor numbers as they continue to descend. “Lestrade has borne witness to some of the most ill-advised decisions of my life,” he says quietly. “Most of them were direct results of my refusal to submit. It would no doubt come as a relief to him to learn that I’ve finally changed my mind.”

            He says nothing more after that. For a moment John is struck with the desire to press the issue—what sorts of things has Sherlock done, and how bad could they have possibly been that settling down with a Dom, any Dom, is his best option and to hell with the details?—but he tamps it down. There’s a time and a place for revelations like this, and the lift at Scotland Yard is definitely not an appropriate one.

            Sherlock’s phone begins to vibrate as they step off the lift, in the same wild pattern as before. With a heavy sigh and an eye-roll, Sherlock slips it out of his pocket and checks the screen.

            “Lestrade again?” John asks. “We were just up there; what does he want now?”

            “To show off his stupidity, it would seem,” Sherlock replies with a curl of his lip. He taps out a quick message and then shoves his mobile back into his pocket. When he doesn’t elaborate, John frowns.

            “What do you mean, stupidity? What’d he say?”

            “He asked me about my neck.” Sherlock’s voice is closed, curt, and John winces as he realises what Lestrade must have assumed. “Don’t worry, I told him you haven’t let me submit properly yet, so it’s not your handiwork. He’s still pleased with you, though.”

            “I was wondering about that.” They exit the building and turn right, John falling into step just behind Sherlock. “Why _does_ he like me? He’s known me for less time than you have.”

            “You stayed,” Sherlock says simply. “You’ve come in with me twice now, and you seem genuinely interested in the case. I’ve left other Doms because they insisted I drop detective work, or that I settle for less interesting, albeit safer, cases.” The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “It doesn’t hurt that you’re also very unaggressive in public. I know at least three Doms who would have slapped me on the spot for contradicting them in front of a submissive, and one especially severe one who would have flogged me once we’d returned home.” He pauses. “Forgive me for the assumption, but I very much doubt that’s your style.”

            “God, no.” John feels a bit sick. “Why would you submit to people like that, anyway? I know there are people who are into that sort of thing, but…” He trails off as Sherlock’s head turns the other way. “You know what? I shouldn’t assume. Sorry.”

            “I had my reasons at the time,” Sherlock murmurs, but says nothing more. This time, John accepts the silence.

            As they continue along the street, the tension slowly abates and John begins to feel comfortable in his proximity to Sherlock. Though he’s a step or so behind, their hands still manage to brush once in a while, and John is close enough to smell the fresh, clean scent of Sherlock’s cologne. He inhales deeply, though perhaps not surreptitiously; Sherlock glances back at him, eyebrow raised, then smiles, a crooked little thing that makes something warm bloom inside John’s chest. He stretches his neck forward—about to whisper something in Sherlock’s ear or kiss him, he isn’t sure—but then Sherlock’s facing forwards again, eyes pointed towards the ground and shoulders hunched, and John retreats, frowning. “What’s the matter?”

            Sherlock says nothing, but his eyes dart for a moment to the right, and John follows his gaze. _Oh._ There’s a Domme standing by the crosswalk, sub in tow; though his head is lowered, it’s cocked slightly and he’s looking up from under his lashes at the two of them with furrowed brows, unconsciously mirroring his Domme.

            “You should get in front of me,” Sherlock says. “Might make you less conspicuous.”

            John doesn’t reply at first. He knows why they’re staring; it’s the same reason that the cab driver and various pedestrians on the way to Scotland Yard were staring earlier.

            Sherlock’s not wearing a collar. That in itself isn’t so strange—many subs who are just starting out with a new Dom often go collarless for the first few weeks—but Sherlock isn’t comporting himself like a sub. He’s walking in front of John, head (until a moment ago) held high, and hands in his pockets rather than crossed in front of or behind him. John isn’t bothered by this—he knows about and understands Sherlock’s desire to appear as a Dom in public—but it must be confusing for everyone else.

            “They’re going to think you’re a sub if you don’t,” Sherlock warns him. “Or, failing that, homosexual. Here.” He clasps his hands behind his back and moves to take a step backwards, but John grabs his arm, halting him.

            “No,” he says. “I don’t want you to.”

            Sherlock looks at him curiously. “It’s no trouble. We’ll be past them in a moment, and you care what people think about you.” He glances back in the direction of the Domme and sub, who’ve already started to cross the street. “See? They’re gone.”

            “That’s not the point.” They’re a bit in the way of the other pedestrians, talking here, but John doesn’t particularly care at the moment. “You don’t like it when other people think you’re a sub. That bothers you. Therefore, I’m not going to ask you to act like one when we’re out walking. Okay?” He studies Sherlock’s eyes (which, he notices rather inappropriately, are such a lovely shade of silver-green at the moment), narrowed slightly in confusion. “Of course, if you change your mind, that’s fine. But don’t do it just because you’re worried about what people think about us. Okay?”

            “…Okay.” Sherlock’s response is quiet, hesitant, but John feels as though it’s a victory nonetheless, and smiles as he lets go of Sherlock’s sleeve to reach up and brush his thumb over a soft, slightly wind-chapped cheek.

            “Thank you,” he says quietly. “Do you mind if I kiss you? Just on your cheek this time, I promise.”

            “You can kiss me wherever you’d like,” Sherlock replies, but tilts his cheek towards John obligingly. He closes his eyes as John rises up on his toes, and when John’s lips touch his skin, a noticeable shiver goes down his back.

            John loves it. He wonders if Sherlock is this sensitive all over, if the press of John’s lips on his hand or back or inner thigh would have the same reaction; he wonders if his other Doms have explored his responses the way John intends to, or if they’d gone immediately to harder, blunter activities and left delicacy behind. He supposes that’s more likely; if Sherlock’s been used by abusive Doms, he’s probably more accustomed to enduring pain than pleasure. Well. John will fix that soon enough, once they’ve written their contract.

            “John?” Sherlock breaks him out of his reverie and he blinks to see the detective watching him patiently, all hints of submission gone from his posture. The sudden split sends John slightly off-balance and he has to a step backwards in order to steady himself. “Are you ready to continue? We’re almost there.”

            “Almost where?” John asks. Sherlock points somewhere a few blocks down the road, but John can’t tell where he means. “Where are we going?”

            Sherlock sighs. “The _club_ , John. Do try and keep up.” He begins walking again without bothering to look and see if John’s following, and the unsteadiness is suddenly joined by a deep, cavernous ache low in his stomach. John forces himself to shake it off, however, and trots after Sherlock as best he can. It’s fine. He’s told Sherlock that he doesn’t need to act any specific way in order to please him, and he means it. Whether Sherlock wants to be distant or adoring, it’s his choice; all John needs to do is adapt.

* * *

 

            John’s limp has returned. Sherlock keeps noticing John’s steps falter, keeps hearing the uneven tread of his shoes on the pavement as he catches up with Sherlock’s longer strides. Once John’s back at his side again, he glances at him out of the corner of his eye; John’s eyes are fixed front, his jaw set, his back stiff. Something sharp sticks inside Sherlock’s chest, a sense of failure as well as shame, and try as he might, he can’t make it go away.

            John deserves proper submission, more so than any other Dom Sherlock has been with. Since the moment they met, John has been taking every notion of Doms that Sherlock has and circumventing them, disproving them, even outright ignoring them at times. His refusal to scene with Sherlock (their failed attempt notwithstanding) without a contract, his utter incomprehension at the idea of punishing Sherlock for the same reason, his dedication to Sherlock’s comfort and preferred public image, even at the cost of his own… it all just adds to the steadily growing flame of Sherlock’s affection, and while the warmth is a pleasant change after years of near-constant frustration, fear, and disgust, at the same time it threatens to overwhelm him.

            John may be kind now, but Sherlock can’t be certain that it isn’t just courting behaviour. What if he allows himself to be pulled in, to accept John’s collar and to live in John’s home, and things change? He doesn’t think he’d be able to take it, after the taste he’s had of something more.

            He’ll have to, of course. He knows he will. Even if John doesn’t turn out to be as bad as Sebastian or Victor or any of the others, he will have his own demands, and Sherlock will have to acquiesce. Sex is the most likely, as he told Lestrade before. Perhaps John will be willing to exclude certain acts from their relationship (he knows about Sherlock’s history of abuse, but few details. It wouldn’t be too difficult to fake traumas regarding some of the more unpalatable activities if necessary), but he can hardly expect John to go without just for his sake. If simply kissing Sherlock’s cheek—in public, no less—can bring on lurid sexual fantasy (really, it was the work of a moment to deduce where John’s thoughts had gone), he fears to think what John will ask of him once they’re in private and Sherlock is under his control.

            _Focus._ He has time; until they write their contract, it’s highly unlikely that John will ask anything more of him. He can use this freedom to come to terms with what he will and will not do, and weigh what sorts of things will make or break his relationship with John. As long as he pays attention, he’ll be fine.

            They’ve reached the café. John didn’t know this was their destination, of course, so Sherlock has to grab him by the elbow before he continues on marching down the sidewalk.

            “We’re pausing here,” he murmurs so that only John can hear him. “The club’s across the street; we’ll be able to see as soon as the staff arrives. What would you like to drink?”

            John’s eyes clear slightly as he glances around at the tables, dark brown wood with white linen umbrellas, folded up to coax down what little winter sun they can. There aren’t too many patrons, much to Sherlock’s relief, but John merely shrugs. “Coffee?”

            How unimaginative, and unhelpful besides. Sherlock tilts his head and studies John from head to toe; sugar? No. Milk, yes. The way he takes his tea. Boring, but then it isn’t his place to judge. He’ll get him some extra caffeine, just in case. It might jolt him out of his lethargy.

            “Wait here,” Sherlock says, and directs John to a table on the periphery, pulling out his chair for him. “I’ll be right back.”

            John’s brow furrows, but Sherlock turns and leaves before he can ask any questions or, worse, object. He knows John doesn’t want him to submit just yet, but light service submission can be almost indistinguishable from good friendship if he plays it correctly, and he knows that John’s Dom side will appreciate it, even if he verbally refuses. A win all ‘round.

            By the time he’s returned with the drinks, John thankfully seems to be a bit more lucid. He flashes a grateful smile up at Sherlock as he’s handed his cup,and the noise he makes when he takes the first sip causes a tendril of pleasure to curl proudly in Sherlock’s chest.

            _You’re proud of getting him_ coffee. _Oh, Sherlock._

            “Perfect,” John says, though the praise doesn’t do much to dispel the wave of nausea that’s taken over Sherlock’s stomach. “Thanks. How’d you know what I like?”

            “Your figure suggests you aren’t the type to enjoy much sugar,” Sherlock replies dismissively. He fiddles with his own cup so he doesn’t have to look at John’s face. “The fact you like milk in your tea was fairly obvious earlier; I merely extrapolated that you’d like it in your coffee as well. I hope you don’t mind the liberty I took with the blend and strength. I thought you would appreciate the energy, but I wanted you to have something smoother, considering your mental state.”

            He immediately wishes he could take the words back; John’s cheeks tinge pink and he sits back a bit in his chair, running a hand over his face.

            “God,” John groans. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

            “You didn’t,” Sherlock replies evenly. “My behaviour upset you and I apologise. This is… difficult, for me.”

            A small wrinkle appears between John’s eyebrows, and it’s suddenly as though dozens of pins have stuck themselves into Sherlock’s shoulders and upper back. He hunches himself over his coffee cup and steadfastly does _not_ look at John, choosing instead to stare at the storefront of the club across the street. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

            He half expects John to argue, but the only sound he hears is a quiet sip and swallow of more coffee.

            “That’s fine,” John says at last. “Do you want to talk about the case?”

            Not particularly, but he also doesn’t want to sit here in awkward silence with his incomprehensible Dom for the next hour or so until the preparatory staff shows up. Sherlock sighs, straightens his shoulders, and tosses his head, trying to line up his thoughts for John’s consumption.

            “The killer is most likely Bradley’s ex-girlfriend,” he says. “She was skilled enough to fool his parents into believing she was a Domme. Even an entire club’s worth of Doms believed that she was one of them.”

            “Not all of them,” John points out. “Lestrade’s victim figured it out.”

            “Which was why she tried to kill him,” Sherlock continues. “She couldn’t risk having her secret get out. It’s very important to her, this fictional Domme identity of hers. So much so that she was trying to turn a normal, natural Dom into a sub as a power play. She’s perfected her role, and she’s proud of it.”

            John frowns. “How are we going to catch her, then? If she’s so good at playing Domme, how are we going to know which one’s her?”

            “Oh, that’s why she’ll be easy to spot,” Sherlock says. “Living as a Domme for over a year? Hiding her nature, shoving it down, not giving it air? She’ll be weak, desperate, no matter how much she denies it. With the right pressure, she’ll crack, and I intend to be there when she does.”

            John looks at him and, in the silence, Sherlock realises belatedly that he’s rather said too much.

            “So that’s why you’re going after her,” John says. “Because she’s like you.”

            “I’ve never killed anyone.”

            “That’s not what I meant.” John fixes him with a hard stare, and Sherlock can’t decide whether he should meet John’s gaze or avert his eyes. “You’re interested in her because you both hate being subs. Because she ended up killing people over some internal identity crisis and you ended up in god knows how many shitty relationships trying to come to terms with what you are.”

            He’s wrong. None of those were the result of some existential urge to _accept_ himself; they were, for the most part, one-night or one-week stands, flings to get the damnable impulse out of his system, to scratch an itch that not even drugs could stave off forever. But John insists on seeing the best of him, always, and Sherlock cannot take that away from him.

            He says nothing.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTES, PLEASE READ:
> 
> This chapter contains strong themes of emotional manipulation and rape. There are also milder themes (present in the entire work, but just reiterating) of misunderstanding of consent and personal well-being. There are also mild mentions of non-graphic self harm. Please tread lightly.
> 
> I'm not really sure what happened with this chapter. I set out with one thing in mind, and it completely ran away from me and transformed into something else. I do think it's a useful chapter, as it explains a great deal of Sherlock's current mindset in regards to submission, but the timeline doesn't really move forward at all. It was also very emotionally draining (and a bit disturbing at times) to write, but I'm pleased with it, and I hope you enjoy.

_What I want to do with John:_

_Be his pet_

_Have him stroke my hair_

_Kneel for him_

_Service him_

_Impress him_

_What I would like John to do:_

_Not humiliate me_

_Not stop me from doing the Work_

_Not make me submit in public_

_Let me take off my collar_

_What I would like to try with John:_

_Being flogged_

_Being bound or blindfolded_

_Temperature play with ice or fire (or hot wax)_

 

            Sherlock reads over the list he’s written and, with a scowl, rips the paper from its rings and flings the crumpled mass into the opposite corner of his closet to join his previous two attempts. He needs to come up with more than this; it’s a paltry offering, hardly an enticing selection for John to choose from once their fledgling relationship finally gets off the ground. (Not to mention it’s terribly un-sub-like, and the thought of John’s response as he reads over Sherlock’s preferences makes him dig his nails into his palms in shame and frustration.) But what can he say? He can’t bring himself to write what John must be expecting on any list titled what he _wants_. …Maybe he can write the list first, and title it after.

            “Sherlock?” Molly taps at his doorframe and he glances up at her respectfully, smoothing out his features as best he can. Since yesterday, when he’d voiced his desire to become John’s sub, she hasn’t once referred to him as “pet,” nor has she chided him for “unbecoming” or disrespectful behaviour. He realises it’s a courtesy, but the lack of direction makes him feel unmoored, uncertain. Not that he’ll tell her that, of course. “What’re you working on?”

            “Something for John.” Sherlock lowers his pen to a fresh piece of paper and scribbles _sex- oral and manual_ before he can really think about it.

            “Oh?” Molly sounds surprised, if pleased. “I thought you’d still be working on the case.”

            _Biting, scratching._ “Stagnated for the moment.” Questioning the staff had done little good apart from getting them access to security footage, and the quality had been grainy at best and suffered from poor lighting besides. Lestrade had set a team to work on it, but even with a clear facial shot, identification took time, and following leads on top of checking the footage against the dates and times of the murders meant that it could take a while before they got back to him. _Days_ , potentially. Sherlock’s skin itches.

            “Ah, I see.” Molly fidgets with the sleeves of her jumper and Sherlock catches the movement out of the corner of his eye. Is it really that awkward to speak to him, now? _Flogging, any implement._ “How did last night go with John? You came home pretty late.”

            Sherlock sighs. “We were tracking leads and acquiring evidence, not _scening_. John refuses to touch me until we’ve written a contract, so you needn’t worry about my honour. I’m writing the preliminaries now.”

            Molly reddens slightly, but her voice is cheery enough as she replies. “Oh, are you? How’s that coming?”

            Tension suddenly blooms across the back of Sherlock’s neck and he rolls his shoulders noncommittally, trying to disguise it. “Fine.”

            “You don’t seem so sure.”

            “It’s been quite some time since I’ve done up a contract.” He tries to keep his voice airy, but the effect sounds more defensive than he’d like. “If you’ll recall, I didn’t exactly have input on the last one written in my name.”

            “Sherlock…” And there it is. Was he angling for her to speak to him in that tone, or is she simply acting out of concern, the way any good Domme would? He doesn’t reply.

            _Humiliation._

            “Show it to me.”

            God, an order. For a moment Sherlock steps up onto the familiar perch, swaying dangerously close to the exhilarating edge of refusal and the tight, powerful heat of pride (you’re more than this, more than brain chemistry and nerve endings and _biology_ , you can say _no_ ), and closes his eyes and just basks in the illusion that he has a _choice._

            Because he doesn’t.

            In the end it wins, the siren call of obedience, and as he hands over the pad with its damning words, it’s like falling into a lake after a long, hot day; although at first the shame tastes bitter, beneath it lies an undercurrent of contentment just waiting to be sparked by a word of praise into a searing flash of pleasure and he waits expectantly, hoping, hoping.

            _You’re a child, Sherlock. A greedy hound, begging for scraps. Is one Dom not enough for you?_

“Thank you,” Molly murmurs. She isn’t looking at him, though, and Sherlock is grateful for small courtesies; the match was lit, dropped into the gasoline, but sputtered out before it could touch, could catch, and he knows that he hadn’t quite managed to smother the longing that had flared across his face in response.

            _Grow up. If you want praise, you have to earn it. You’ve done nothing special._

            “Sherlock, you don’t like any of this.” Molly’s voice is muted, dim, but Sherlock latches onto it and tries to pull himself back to shore. He keeps falling, harder and harder these days, even with the promise of both Molly and John in the back of his mind. As much as he hates the prospect, he’s going to have to do something about it soon; better to plan and prepare for his impending humiliation than to drop into it out on the street.

            “It hasn’t got a title yet,” he says. He means it to sound haughty, but his voice comes out sounding more childish than anything else. “It could be a list of my limits.”

            “It could,” Molly allows, “but I’m fairly sure you’ve never written one of those in your life.”

            Sherlock growls and shoves himself to his feet to snatch the paper back. “I have, actually, and now I’m doing it again. I’m not _completely_ incapable.”

            “You don’t need to act out, Sherlock,” Molly admonishes him quietly. “You’re allowed to be nervous.”

            “I’m not—”

            “Sit.” Molly points at his bed, and suddenly it’s too much trouble to stay angry. With a sigh, Sherlock plops down onto the blankets and lets his head fall back against the wall with a soft _thud._

            “I don’t know what to write.” He feels idiotic saying so, but Molly doesn’t make fun of him for it. She merely lowers herself to sit next to him, then gently brushes a stray lock of hair out of his face.

            “Okay, and why is that?” she asks. “You know what you like, don’t you? And what you don’t?”

            Of course he does. That isn’t the point. John is an experienced Dom, not a curious teenager dipping his toes into the world of sexual behaviour. He’ll have preferences, expectations, _desires_ , and as his sub, it will be Sherlock’s duty to meet them as best he can. Perhaps he went a bit far with some of his suggestions, but what does Molly expect him to do? Go to John with a list that amounts to little more than “pet me, praise me” without anything of value to offer in return? John would buy himself a dog if that was all he wanted.

            “Pet,” Mistress says, and at that one word Sherlock feels his face begin to crumple. There’s no shame in letting go for just a moment, is there? He’s just so very _tired_ , and the desire to press his face against Mistress’ shoulder is so strong that he can only resist it for a second or two before giving in with an embarrassed groan.

            “It’s all right, pet,” Mistress soothes. “You’re allowed to need this, and I like holding you. Do you want me to touch your neck?”

            Sherlock presses his lips together but nods anyway, and then Mistress’ fingertips are pressing gently against his nape, massaging the skin, and his eyes flutter closed at the relief of it. He wants to pull back, lower his head even further for her, but her arm closes around his shoulders as he tries, and she shakes her head.

            “I’m so honoured, pet,” she says, “but you don’t have to do that for me. All I need is for you to listen right now. Can you do that for me?”

            Sherlock _hms_ noncommittally and rubs his cheek against Mistress’ shoulder. “What is it?”

            “I want you to think about your limits,” Mistress tells him. “And not necessarily the ones written on our contract. I know that your brother wrote that one, not you.” She strokes gently at the skin behind Sherlock’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “But think about all the things you don’t like to do. Can you list them for me?”

            Sherlock furrows his brow, eyes flickering behind their lids as he searches out the document from his memory. “Sex. All kinds.”

            “Yes.” Mistress’ thumb brushes along the outer edge of his ear this time. “What else?”

            “Being humiliated, shamed, or made to feel afraid.”

            “Good. Next one?”

            “Unhygienic practices or exposure to bodily fluids.”

            Mistress pauses, then resumes stroking Sherlock’s nape gently. “I don’t remember that one, pet.”

            “Not your fault,” Sherlock replies quietly. “Mycroft didn’t know it.”

            “I promise to remember it,” Mistress says. “Can you remember any others?”

            “Those are the most important ones.”

            “All right, then.” Mistress’ hand slows in preparation to stop petting and Sherlock butts against it half-heartedly. “You put some things that violate your limits on that list for John, pet. Why did you do that?”

            Sherlock turns his face away and traces a finger aimlessly over his knee. Mistress probably already knows why he did it, she just wants him to say it out loud. His cheeks burn at the thought, but he knows she’ll wait until he answers her. She’s been very patient, and very persistent, before.

            “I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmurs at last. “I want to please him.”

            “Do you think he’d be pleased to find out that you were hurting yourself for his sake?” Mistress asks. Sherlock shrugs helplessly.

            “He wouldn’t have to find out,” he protests, but the excuse sounds weak even to his ears. “I’d endure it very well. I’d make him proud of me.”

            “Pet.” Mistress places a hand on his chin, gently turning his face until he meets her eyes. “No one wants their partner to _endure_ for them. I can’t speak for submissives, but we Doms want to help you thrive, to teach you, to see you grow. We want you to be strong, and you can’t do that if you’re forcing yourself to do things that hurt and frighten you without us there to support you.” She pauses, eyes flitting off to the side then back as she thinks. “What if John was a sub? Imagine that he’d been used very harshly by his old Dom, that they’d whipped him and called him names every day. He finally manages to leave, and years later he wants to find a new Dom, but he still has nightmares about being whipped. Would you tell him he had to offer that option to his new partner in order to be loved?”

            “No,” Sherlock says immediately, but it’s not the same. Of course, if John were a sub, Sherlock would do anything he could to keep John from entering a relationship like that. But John’s a Dom, is somehow willing to be Sherlock’s, and he’s _sexual_. She must be able to see that, surely?

            “Then why do you have to?”

            Sherlock’s hands clench into fists and he tears himself out of Mistress’ grasp, burying his face into his knees. The urge to feel pain, any kind of pain, is overwhelming, and he digs his nails into the back of his neck roughly enough that he can feel the skin start to split.

            _I don’t allow my subs to hurt themselves, Sherlock. Stop it._

            “Pet.” Mistress’ fingers close around his own, prying them one by one from his neck. He resists at first, stubbornly digging them back in as she moves on, but she is relentless and eventually he submits, relaxing his wrists and letting her pull them away from his neck as he turns his head to rest his cheek on his knees.

            “You asked me when Sebastian changed.” He doesn’t know what drives him to say it. The pain, the drop, the exhaustion: they’re omnipresent, tugging at the back of his mind, but he’s used to fighting them, is proud of how well he can function while ignoring his body’s needs. He doesn’t need to tell Mistress; she’s promised not to push him. And yet… the idea of telling someone, of finally having someone _understand_ … He isn’t naïve enough to trust that she could fix it, that she could help him erase what he’s been trying to delete for years, but the temptation is dangling in front of him, waiting for him to give in.

            “I did.” Mistress’ voice is very quiet. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

            Sherlock keeps his eyes closed and takes the fruit. “Sebastian changed when he realised that having an asexual, mewling submissive no longer satisfied him. He had _needs_ , after all, and I was an embarrassment. Why wouldn’t I kneel to him in public, why did I have to show off so much, why did I have to tease him with a mouth made for sucking cock?” Sherlock’s lip curls in disgust. “If I’d given him sexual favours earlier on in our relationship, he would probably have lasted a bit longer before turning truly awful, but as it was, he was putting up with a lot and not getting anything worthwhile in return.” Mistress makes a pained noise but Sherlock ignores it and sighs heavily through his nose. “I should have been expecting it. I was young, and naïve enough to believe that everything he told me was the truth.”

            “What he did to you was coercion and abuse, pet,” Mistress says. “He had no right to ask that of you, especially if it went contrary to what was in your contract.”

            Sherlock tenses. He knows that Mistress wouldn’t punish him for something he’d done long before he’d ever met her, but he also knows that what he’s about to say will hurt her, will make her look at him with pity in her eyes, and he hates it.

            “We didn’t… have a contract, as such,” he begins quietly. “At least, not written down. It was more of a verbal agreement that was patched as necessary. And it was fairly easy for Sebastian, in some of my weaker moments, to convince me of the… necessity of some alterations.”

            _It’s been three weeks. Three long, horrible, excruciating weeks in which Master hasn’t looked at him, hasn’t touched him, hasn’t given him so much as a single order. It makes him want to chain smoke until he can’t breathe, or throw his test tubes against the wall, but he knows it’s his own fault. His fault because he’d been selfish enough to think that his experiments were more important than Master’s needs. He’d argued with Master, talked back, and he’d been so foolishly pleased with himself when Master had left. He’d been proud enough to think that he could outlast Master, but he was wrong. It’s been twenty-one days now since Master walked out of that lab, and in that time he hasn’t needed Sherlock once._

_Sherlock is the one who is weak._

_Master is usually out on the grounds this time of day, ostensibly studying with his friends but really just chatting and horsing around. It will be humiliating, what Sherlock has to do, but he deserves it. Perhaps Master will take pity on him. Forgive him. He doubts it, but he has to try._

_With shaking fingers, Sherlock dresses himself and combs his hair into something resembling order, then spends several minutes in front of the mirror trying to school his face into cool, blank apathy. He doesn’t need the entire student body to know what sort of state he’s in. (He ignores the little voice in the back of his mind, just starting to take on Mycroft’s cadence and tone, that reminds him that they’ve probably already guessed; their relationship had caused quite a stir on campus when they’d first begun to scene regularly, and a three-week break from seeing them out together would be rather obvious, even to a non-Holmes.)_

_He manages to navigate the campus without receiving too many odd stares and finds Master beneath the usual tree, surrounded by four other boys that he only vaguely recognises. One looks up as he approaches, smirks, then elbows the boy next to him as he leans forward to whisper something in Master’s ear._

_Master doesn’t respond, not even when Sherlock stops mere feet from where they’re sitting. The other boys don’t quite seem to know how to react; one looks away, clearly uncomfortable, while two begin a quiet conversation with each other and the last looks on eagerly, as if anticipating either a fistfight or teary drama. Sherlock is determined to give him neither._

_“Sebastian.”_

_Master says nothing. There is a book lying open at his side and he picks it up now, flipping through it idly._

_“Sebastian, we need to talk.” Still nothing. Sherlock’s hands clench into fists briefly, but he forces them to relax. Getting angry won’t help. He has a vague idea of what will, although he hopes that Master wouldn’t be so cruel. That was the first promise he’d made to Sherlock—surely he must remember it._

_“Did you hear something, Tim?” Master asks the boy who’s watching them. Tim, grinning, shakes his head._

_“Nothin’, Seb. Just a little lost kitten, meowing for pets.”_

_It’s as if Sherlock’s entire body has suddenly been doused in ice water. He stares at Master, limbs frozen, unable to comprehend what he’s just heard. How—? But he’d promised not to tell—_

_“Ah.” Master flips past another page in his book, face steadfastly turned away from Sherlock. “Scare it away, would you? I’m not much for strays.”_

_“Seb.” Sherlock’s voice breaks halfway through the syllable and he falls to his knees, only just managing to resist the urge to present his neck. “Master, please.”_

_The title elicits snickering from the boys and Sherlock closes his eyes as his face burns in humiliation. It’s his fault, all his fault. If he’d just respected Master in the first place, he wouldn’t be here right now. He deserves this._

_The grass shifts and Sherlock’s eyes snap open to see Master finally,_ finally _looking at him; he’s smirking, body posture relaxed and eyes amused, and he doesn’t look like their separation has caused him any hardship at all, but Sherlock doesn’t care. Master knows he exists again. Nothing else matters._

_“You’ve been a very naughty kitten, Sherlock,” Master tells him. “Are you ready to make it up to me?”_

Make it up. _Master will let him apologise. The relief that floods through Sherlock’s body at the thought makes him go boneless. Head lowered, he falls forward onto his hands, his forearms, crawls towards Master until he’s close enough to touch, then rolls over to expose his belly and the vulnerable underside of his neck._

_“Please,” he whispers, desperate to feel Master’s hands on his skin again. “Please, I’ll do anything.”_

_“God, he’s just gagging for it, isn’t he?” one of the boys exclaims. His voice is muffled, in the background, but Sherlock doesn’t care. Master’s voice is the only one that matters right now. “What the hell did you do to him?”_

_Master chuckles, low in his throat, and hovers a hand tantalizingly close to Sherlock’s neck without touching. Desperate for contact, Sherlock’s back arches up on its own, but a sudden spurt of fear has him aborting the movement, terrified of what Master will do if he presumes. The restraint makes him tremble and he swallows back a soft whine as the boys laugh again._

_“I didn’t do anything,” Master replies. “That’s the beautiful part.” He studies Sherlock quietly for a moment, eyes still bright with amusement and something else that Sherlock is too far gone to name. “I think I know what you can do for me,” he says, sharp canine teeth bared in a smile. “Although I’m afraid it’s something you said you didn’t want to do, before. Are you sure you meant anything?”_

_Anything. Whatever he has to do to have Master touch him again. Sherlock closes his eyes and nods._

_“Good boy.” At last, Master’s hand closes around Sherlock’s throat and he is lost._

_-_

_Master ends up taking them back to his room. Sherlock is permitted to walk at first, since that allows them move more quickly, but once the bedroom door is closed, Master turns around to point at the floor and Sherlock falls to his knees so hard and so fast that the shock reverberates all the way up his thighs._

_“On the bed,” Master says, and Sherlock scrambles to obey. So desperate is he to please that he’s on his hands and knees, head lowered to expose the back of his neck before he realises that he doesn’t know what Master is going to ask of him._

_That’s all right, though. He doesn’t have to know. That’s the whole point of Master being Master. He’ll tell Sherlock what he wants, and Sherlock will do it, and Master will forgive him and everything will be all right again._

_Master doesn’t praise him for obeying, but that’s fine too. All Sherlock’s done is climb on a bed for Master, and Master was never very free with praise before, either. Sherlock needs to do something exceptional to deserve it. He keeps himself very still as Master climbs onto the bed next to him, then allows himself to be manhandled down until he’s lying flat on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow._

_“Mine,” Master says, stroking a firm line down Sherlock’s side. The word, more than the touch, sends a spark of arousal curling like smoke through Sherlock’s abdomen and he twitches up a knee in response. “You are mine, aren’t you? Haven’t been subbing to anyone else while I was gone?”_

_Sherlock shakes his head, the rasping of his skin against the pillowcase loud in his ears. “No, Master, I promise. I waited for you.”_

_“Perfect.” Master leans down and presses his lips against the side of Sherlock’s neck. It’s warm and dry and almost tickling at first, but then there’s a soft wetness stroking along the muscle and Sherlock recoils._

_“Master,” he protests, but Master grips his shoulder and pulls him back, starting to suck a bruise into the skin. Saliva trickles down to soak into his shirt collar and Sherlock’s hands fist in the sheets, back muscles tensing as he tries to block out the sensation. “Master, I don’t like that.”_

_“I do,” Master says. His teeth scrape along Sherlock’s vertebrae, digging in just enough to make Sherlock shiver in a mix of arousal and burgeoning uncertainty. “You said I could do anything, remember?”_

_Sherlock does, but the idea of Master’s spit on his neck hadn’t really occurred to him at the time. Still… it’s not unbearable, and if it helps Master to forgive him, he supposes he can deal with it. He quiets, and tries to settle more comfortably into the sheets as Master continues sucking at his neck._

_After a few minutes, Master’s hands release their hold and begin to stroke over his body again; one slides all the way down to where his shirt is tucked into his trousers and starts pulling at the fabric. Sherlock jerks away this time, but he doesn’t get very far before Master’s fingers dig into his back, halting him._

_“You’re misbehaving, Sherlock,” Master growls at him. “Stay still.”_

_Sherlock hesitates, trying to ignore the tight ball of anxiety building low in his stomach. He wants to please Master, truly, he does, but Master’s pushing the rules. This was one of the first limits they’d set together, and even though Master has sometimes had difficulties with it, he’s never strayed this close to the line before. Sherlock can’t deduce whether he means to cross it or not, and that realisation chills him to the bone._

_“Settle,” Master says, his voice suddenly much more gentle. “Settle, pet, it’s all right. Stop worrying. I’ll take good care of you. Just relax for me.”_

_Relax. He can do that. Slowly, hesitantly, Sherlock presses himself back up against Master and lowers his head so that Master can card his fingers through his hair. The pleasure is weak at first, but eventually, as he stops resisting, the soft pressure of Master’s fingers on his skull wipes his mind clear and the rest of his body gradually fades out until it might as well not exist at all. It’s perfect._

_It doesn’t last._

_Sherlock is floating along on a gentle wave of sensation, pleasantly non-verbal and content when he becomes distantly aware of something touching his arse. He doesn’t particularly care for it, but it’s also not too troublesome, so he tries to settle back into the mattress and the pleasurable static. A moment later, however, there’s a cold hand on his leg (where have his trousers gone?) nudging his thighs apart, and his subspace shatters in an instant._

_“No!” he snaps, bringing his knees up to cover himself. Master growls again and grabs an ankle, tugging at it roughly._

_“Behave, Sherlock,” he orders, but Sherlock’s in no mood to listen right now._

_“Let go,” he snarls. “It’s a limit and you know it.”_

_“Yeah, and look where that’s got us.” Sebastian releases his ankle and goes for his wrists instead, pinning them to either side of the bed before Sherlock’s dazed limbs can react. “You’d probably like it, you know. I see you get hard-ons when we play. Why don’t you ever do anything about them?”_

_Sherlock doesn’t answer, choosing instead to try—ineffectually—to free his wrists from Sebastian’s grasp. He’s still got his shirt on; hardly ideal, but it’ll cover enough for him to run back to his dorm if he has to. Though his muscles are loose at the moment, uncoordinated, they’re recovering fast as adrenaline fills his veins. Seb’s grip is loosening around his left wrist—if he could just—turn—_

_Pain explodes across his cheek, and for a moment his brain goes offline. Seb hit him._ Slapped _him. He’s never—it’s only ever been when Sherlock wanted it, before, he’s never been hit out of anger—_

_Again, on the other cheek, and Sherlock’s wrists are free now, Master’s barely touching him, just looming over him on the bed, but Sherlock can’t force himself to move. He’s misbehaved, he’s been punished, but why is Master angry? He’d promised not to touch Sherlock, not again after—_

_“Much better,” Master says, and leans down to nip at Sherlock’s collarbone. “Spread your legs, pet. You’ll like this.”_

No. Please, no. _He ought to do as Master asks, at the very least to prevent him from getting angry again, but Sherlock’s heart pounds at the thought of letting his knees fall open, of exposing himself to Master’s eyes, his hands, his mouth. He doesn’t want Master to touch him, doesn’t want Master to see him. For a strange, dizzying moment, he feels very young, and has to swallow back his brother’s name as it rises in his throat, unbidden._

_Please._

_Master’s hand closes around his knee. “I said spread them,” he orders, and pushes down until Sherlock’s right knee is flat on the bed. Sherlock’s left immediately tries to follow, to close the gap, but Master grabs it, holding it still, and Sherlock begins to whimper in embarrassment and fear._

_He’s soft, of course he is, but that’s not good enough for Master, who grunts in irritation and leans over to retrieve something from the bedside table. It’s a bottle, red—lubricant—but not one that he’s seen Master use before when he masturbates. It’s half empty._

_“Stay still,” Master tells him as he pops the cap. “I promise, you’ll enjoy it a lot more if you do.”_

_Sherlock trembles, watching the steady drip of the lube onto Master’s fingers. He’s not tied down, not bound in any way, but his limbs feel as if they’ve been turned to lead and it’s all he can do to turn his head away and clench his eyes shut as Master lowers a hand towards his penis._

_The lube is cold, and wet, and Master’s hand follows him as he tries to squirm away, too tight as it begins to stroke, searching out all the places that make Sherlock’s hips stutter as his cock swells against his will._

_“That’s it,” Master murmurs. “It’s good lube, isn’t it? Just give it a minute, it gets better.” He takes his hand away and Sherlock almost cries in relief except the heat isn’t going away, it’s getting stronger and oh god oh god oh GOD. He wants so desperately to close his legs but Master’s knees are in the way and he’s reduced to covering his face with his hands, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating._

_“Oh, it can’t be as bad as all that,” Master says coaxingly. “Everyone else’s loved it. Or are you just too sensitive ‘cause you’ve never wanked before?”_

_Sherlock doesn’t respond. He can’t. His penis is burning, begging to be touched, but he refuses to give in with Master sitting right on top of him, and he’s damned if he’s going to ask Master to do it for him, but oh god he wants it to_ stop.

_“Oh for god’s sake,” Master sighs. “Maybe you’re hopeless after all.” He shifts, and for a breathless moment Sherlock thinks that it’s all over, that Master’s going to get up and let him go, but then the bottle flashes in front of his eyes once more and a cold finger is pressing threateningly against his anus._

_“Safeword,” Sherlock gasps, clinging desperately to the last defence he has. “Safeword, please, Sebastian, I can’t, please don’t make me—”_

_Sebastian’s hand wraps around his wrist, tugging it away from his face. His fingers are slick, and leave behind a sheen of oiliness on Sherlock’s skin that he wants to scrape away with his fingernails, wants to scratch off until he bleeds, but the image is shattered as Seb shakes him, his face inches from Sherlock’s own._

_“I’m not making you,” Sebastian says quietly. “You’re letting me. You’re a good little kitten in heat, and you wanted to please your master, so you told him he could do anything to you. He’s only taking you at your word.” He lets go of Sherlock’s wrist then and sits back, reaching down to undo his trousers. “Don’t worry, pet. You’ll like orgasms, I promise. Just relax.”_

* * *

 

            “He was wrong, anyway,” Sherlock spits, breaking suddenly from the narrative. Molly’s hand pauses in its stroking of his back.

            “Pet?”

            “About masturbating,” Sherlock says. The word feels strange on his tongue, even after everything he’s just related, and embarrassment prickles down his spine, but that’s ridiculous, so he ignores it and presses on. “I was no stranger to orgasms at the time. I’d simply never had one in his presence. How he took that to mean I’d never experienced one at all when he _wasn’t_ a complete idiot escapes me.” His fists clench by his sides and he’s struck with the sudden urge to get up and pace. He hasn’t felt this angry about the ordeal in a long time—he’s made it a habit to redirect his thoughts when the subject comes up, to delete everything in his mind palace that reminds him of Sebastian and thoroughly reject any advances on the subject in real life, but now that he’s let himself explore the memory (not to mention put it into words for the first time) he finds himself filled with an incoherent fury at Sebastian and everything that had transpired between them.

            “—ll right, pet,” Molly is saying, her hand once more brushing soothingly along his vertebrae. “You’ve been so strong, and very, very brave.”

            Sherlock doesn’t feel brave. He feels dirty, pathetic, weak for having let himself become so dependent on another human being that he let himself be raped and humiliated, all for some meagre scraps of subspace. He hates this addiction of his psyche, one that he’d never signed up for and has never (almost never, he amends bitterly) derived any pleasure from. Still, needs must, and Molly doesn’t understand.

            “You don’t need to comfort me,” he protests, squirming out from under her hands. “That wasn’t the point of all this. The _point_ is that John is sexual, I am not, and he’s going to get terribly _bored_ of me after a month or so unless I put out. _That’s_ why I put it in the contract, and _that’s_ why I have to offer it to him. But it won’t be non-consensual this time; I’m going into it knowing exactly what it is that I’m offering, and I’m accepting it. It’s fine.”

            Molly’s face at his pronouncement, however, tells him that it’s anything but. Sherlock frowns at her. “What’s the problem?”

            “That’s not how consent works,” Molly says quietly. “You can’t just turn it off and on like that, and you can’t predict it in advance. True, there are some things you just assume you have permission for once you’re in a relationship, but if John’s even half the Dom Sebastian was, he’s going to ask your consent before he initiates anything sexual. That’s where you have your chance.”

            Sherlock scoffs. “What chance? It’s not like I’ll be able to say no.”

            “How do you think John would feel if he heard you say that?” Molly asks him sharply. “If he knew that you were going into this expecting to suffer?”

            “I think he’d be touched,” Sherlock bites back. He doesn’t mean it, not really, but the sarcasm feels good, quickens his pulse. “I’d be giving up my comfort for his, in order to please him. Isn’t that what subs are supposed to do?”

            “Subs are supposed to please their Doms _while looking out for themselves_ ,” Molly corrects him, voice stern. “You’re supposed to tell them your limits and your fears so they don’t hurt you, and you’re supposed to tell them what you like so they can please you in return. What you were doing in that list of yours was neither.”

            “It was necessary!”

            “John would consider it _rape_ , pet, rape or assault, if he did anything on that list to you, because you would be too afraid to say no to something you didn’t enjoy.”

            “It’s not about _fear_ ,” Sherlock starts, angrily, but Molly interrupts him.

            “Oh, I think it is. You’re afraid of losing him already, before you’ve even properly gotten together. I told you I thought it was too early to start a contract, and this is just proving my point.” She sighs, the frustration sliding off her face to be replaced by weariness. “Are you sure you don’t want to think more about this, pet? Wait until you’re a bit more stable before you—”

            “No,” Sherlock says vehemently. “I’m contracting with John. You said I’m allowed to, and that I can come back if it doesn’t work out. I’m sure it won’t take five months to decide if we’re compatible or not.”

            “You’re right, it probably won’t,” Molly agrees, suddenly complacent. “But, pet—” and here her eyes meet his, dark with a gravity that forces him to sit up and take notice—“the question that’s left, then, is this: if you do turn out to be incompatible, do you trust yourself to leave?”

            Sherlock sniffs. “Of course.” But he doesn’t quite meet Molly’s eyes as he says it, and he can feel the weight of her gaze as she nods and moves to stand up.

            “Work on your contract, Sherlock,” she says, pausing at the door to tap gently on the frame. “I’ll have lunch ready in half an hour.”

            And then she’s gone, leaving Sherlock with three crumpled, rejected pieces of paper on his floor and a fourth on his pad—the sum of his devotion to John.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I'm just managing to squeeze this update in before November ends! I'm sorry I couldn't manage it earlier, but writing out the contract scene was very difficult for me. Fine-tuning emotions and trying to keep the boys on a relatively healthy track while also giving myself some leeway for future scenes was tiring, and I had to rewrite some sections several times. However, I'm quite pleased with where this chapter went, and the last 1100 words or so practically flowed out on their own. I hope you enjoy.

_“Seven… eight… nine… ten.”_

_John lowers the crop, relishing the silence that follows once the warm slap of leather on skin fades from the air. His left arm burns with exertion, and his breathing is a bit harsh in his ears, but Sherlock sits quietly in front of him, breathing steadily despite the amount of pain he must be in. John’s chest swells with pride at the sight._

_“Beautiful,” he breathes. He sets the crop down on his chair and then approaches Sherlock, sinking to his knees beside his sub to examine his back. Sherlock’s skin is a beautiful mix of pink and red where John has struck him, capillaries bursting to send blood rushing to the surface, but he doesn’t make a sound as John brushes his fingers gently over the marks._

_“You were amazing, Sherlock,” John whispers. “Absolutely marvellous. Does it hurt?”_

_Sherlock doesn’t respond at first, at least not verbally. He tilts his head to the side with a sigh, exposing his neck, and John can’t restrain himself from leaning in to press a soft kiss along the edge of his collar._

_“More,” Sherlock murmurs, voice hoarse as if he’s dredging the word up from the depths of his consciousness. He turns his head to look at John, eyes half-lidded in pleasure, and John’s chest tightens at the expression on Sherlock’s face: trusting, open, vulnerable, and so, so beautiful. “Can take more. Give me more, please.”_

_“That doesn’t answer my question,” John says, a bit more firmly this time, bringing up a hand to smooth sweat-soaked curls off Sherlock’s forehead. “It doesn’t hurt too badly?”_

_Sherlock shakes his head, an awkward, off-balance motion. “No. Fine. Want more, please, John.”_

_“All right.” John kisses him again, on his brow this time, and stands up. “Five more, Sherlock. Five. Is that all right?”_

_Sherlock makes a faint noise of discontent, but John_ tsks _and he falls silent, just like he’s been taught. Such a good boy._

_“We haven’t done this many before,” John reminds him. “I’m very happy, Sherlock, that you want to go further, but I don’t want to hurt you. If you take this well, we can do more next time. Okay?”_

_Sherlock hums, slightly off-key, in agreement, then resettles himself on his knees. John gives him a minute to centre himself before he picks up the crop again._

_“Five,” he reminds Sherlock. “Can you count them for me?”_

_“Five,” Sherlock repeats. “Ready, John.”_

_John lifts the crop, plots his aim, prepares to strike—_

            Except no, Sherlock might not enjoy that.

            John sits back in his chair, chewing absentmindedly on the end of his pencil as he ponders the word _flogging_ that adorns the bottom of his list. He doesn’t know the specifics of what Sherlock’s suffered at the hands of other Doms; it’s entirely plausible that he’ll never want to experience pain again after what he’s been through. Of course, John will respect that if that’s his wish. Pain has never featured particularly heavily in John’s relationships with his subs. (He won’t lie, he does enjoy the careful application of pain, watching his subs learn to take more and more until they finally push past the limits they thought they had, but he mostly considers it a tool, a way to break them down before he builds them back up stronger than before.) If it’s a tool Sherlock won’t accept, he’ll figure out how to work around it. It’s fine.

            But… as important as the issue is, there’s no point speculating about what Sherlock may or may not want right now. It’ll impact his list, paralyse him and influence his responses, and this needs to be the place where John is as honest as possible. They’ll decide together what will or won’t go on the actual contract once they meet.

            That decided, John lowers his pencil to paper again and rereads what he’s put so far:

_No medical or military roleplay_

_No bloodletting or other serious injury_

_No humiliation (of either of us)_

_No bodily waste: play will remain as hygienic as possible_

_No shamming at nonconsent: no’s and safewords always mean stop_

_Sherlock will be allowed to continue working with Lestrade as desired_

_Sherlock will not be allowed to harm himself; if he feels that he deserves punishment, he will approach John._

_John will not force Sherlock to behave submissively in public and Sherlock will not do so solely to please John._

_Titles? Safewords: SH_____ JW Kandahar_

_Bondage_

_Sensation play_

_Flogging_

            It’s not a complete list, not by far, but John’s contracts have always been living, breathing things, growing over time to more accurately express his relationship with his sub. Besides, it isn’t imperative to write down every possible activity or rule in the beginning, especially not for (what he hopes will be) a long-term relationship. This is to give Sherlock and himself a taste of what the other is looking for, and to see if their interests are compatible. On the other hand, the more defences he puts in for Sherlock, the better, so on the next line he writes _If a suggested activity or order is or becomes emotionally distressing, for whatever reason, either party may decline with no punishment involved._ He hopes Sherlock will take the clause for what it is without embarrassment. He might not want to openly acknowledge his abuse, but John will be damned if he doesn’t put safety nets in place for his sub. He never wants to see fear in Sherlock’s eyes, never wants Sherlock to think he has to hide or sweep things under the rug for fear of retaliation from his Dom.

            What he _does_ want to see… he wants to see Sherlock’s eyes fluttering closed in pleasure, wants to see the way his back writhes as John kisses his way up his thigh. He wants to see Sherlock kneel for him, posture perfect and at ease as John guides him down into subspace and back out again. He wants to see the spark of joy he knows is there behind those sea-green-grey eyes, and he wants to know that he was the one who put it there.

            He wants Sherlock to be happy.

            Of course, it’s not going to be easy; even if they hadn’t decided to enter into a formal relationship, Sherlock’s personality is tricky and his past adds in an extra wrinkle that John has had little experience with. Still, he’s going to do his best to find the right balance of discipline and security that Sherlock needs. He has to.

            Speaking of which… John flips over his paper. The word _punishments_ is scrawled across the top, underlined and then abandoned.

            With most of the subs he’s had, this section has been fairly straightforward. There are only so many schools of thought on discipline, after all, and most Doms usually settle into one or two by the time they reach adulthood. However, in Sherlock’s case, John thinks that some more compromise than usual will be required.

            John naturally falls into either the “gentle” or “stern” categories of discipline, giving a wide berth to the “master-slave” style and only occasionally dipping into “strict” if his sub specifically requests it. Sherlock probably wouldn’t tolerate a passive style, but John’s fairly confident that, at least at first, he’s going to have to leave a lot of flexibility for certain behaviours while still guiding Sherlock towards appropriate submissive conduct. If Sherlock is used to abuse, it’s highly likely that, once exposed to a kinder environment, he will act out. It’s John’s duty to teach him that that is unacceptable while still remaining a safe, loving figure that Sherlock can trust.

            This is where the difficulty comes in. During their previous conversations, Sherlock  has not been particularly forthcoming about what limits he has, apart from “no serious injury” and using barriers. This, coupled with the fact that John knows little about his interests (and using a pleasurable activity as punishment either completely defeats the purpose or ruins a once enjoyable experience), leaves him on unsteady ground. Therefore, this is a conversation they’ll have to have face-to-face.

            Just as John picks up his phone to text Sherlock, however, his message alert beeps.

            “Speak of the devil,” John murmurs. He unlocks the screen to read the message, a small smile playing on the corners of his lips, but once he sees the words it stops cold.

_I’ve finished my end of the contract. Shall I show it to you? SH_

            He’s _done?_ Already? John frowns, shifting in his chair as he decides how to respond. They’d only gotten in between midnight and one in the morning after their investigating the night before, and it’s just turned noon now. Assuming Sherlock had slept properly (which, John figures, is a long shot if his eating habits are anything to go by), then he’s had at best three or four hours to write his list. While that’s not _necessarily_ a bad thing (some Doms claim that quick contracts are best—less time to debate and stew over the contents), that plus the _very_ eager message still makes John uncomfortable.

_There’s no rush, you know, but yeah, you can come over if you want to. I’m still working on mine, fair warning, but I could use your help if you’re up to it._

            He presses send, then sits back and waits. Sherlock’s reply comes in less than a minute.

_Leaving now; should be less than twenty minutes. What did you need? SH_

            John huffs a humourless laugh through his nose. Among the myriad of strange behaviours that Sherlock exhibits, this is the one that perplexes him the most. Sherlock doesn’t _like_ subbing; at the very least he doesn’t like doing it in public, and even in private he’s seemed to have difficulty letting go, only properly submitting to John when he’s in drop or trying to seduce him out on their dates. While subbing during drop makes sense—it’s acting upon the desire to appease the Dom, to get back on their good side in order to get aftercare and attention—his otherwise sporadic behaviour is bizarre, and makes it hard for John to know what sort of relationship Sherlock is going to want or expect.

            Now, if he believes what the posh git with the umbrella has to say, Sherlock’s been in and out of several relationships during his adult life. Some of them were too short to have had anything resembling a proper contract, and even now he’s positively rushing to get one written between himself and John. All of this points to a fairly common adaptive behaviour of abused subs: get in, enjoy a few rounds of ‘space with a partner, then get out before they can hurt you again. However, that doesn’t explain Sherlock’s reticence with him. If Sherlock had just wanted a fling, then he would have simply approached John (or, hell, even Molly) and asked for what he wanted. Instead he’s stumbling through dates and suppressing his own submission. While John wants to take this as a sign that Sherlock’s feelings for him are real, he can’t quite force himself to accept that conclusion wholeheartedly. If he assumes Sherlock’s feelings and then finds himself mistaken further down the road…

            He doesn’t think he could take that again.

            The ding of his phone startles John out of his thoughts and, tiredly, he swipes across the screen to check the text. He must have taken too long to reply: _It’s all right,_ Sherlock tells him, _You can ask me, whatever it is._ John sighs and rubs at his face with one hand, typing carefully with the other.

_Just something with my side of the contract I need your input on. I told you I’m not making you sub until we’ve signed it._

            Once again Sherlock’s response comes within seconds.

_Your side? What impact could I have on your side? I thought it was to be separate. SH_

He’s learning not to push, at least, but he still has a long way to go in exercising patience. Well, if he’s not going to wait, John might as well get him thinking.

_It was,_ he taps out. _I guess I meant the procedural side of things. I was going to start the punishment list and then realised I should probably have you around when I write it. Would you mind working on that while you’re here?_

            The response takes much longer this time, enough that John frowns at his phone and rechecks the signal. All fine. Maybe Sherlock’s gone on the Underground? After three minutes with no reply, John shrugs and gets up from his chair to go and rummage through the cupboards. He’ll lay out a plate with some biscuits; god knows Sherlock needs them, and it’ll make his Dom side feel better if he provides.

            His phone pings. Leaving the packet of chocolate hobnobs open on the counter, John saunters back into the sitting room and checks the text.

_Of course not, but… I was expecting you to just pick from my limits. I can enumerate more if you find the list inadequate. SH_

            John’s stomach drops. No. Nonono. Why would Sherlock _ever_ —? Retroactive panic floods through John’s system and his free hand clutches helplessly at the blanket on the back of his chair. His sub—his sub has been hurting, has been hurt, has been suffering at the hands of other Doms and John has failed him, has not made it absolutely clear that Sherlock is safe now, that there’s no more need for pain. He has to find Sherlock, has to hold him and comfort him and—

            _Stop,_ John orders himself sternly, clamping down on the stream of instinctual thought. _You’re a rational human being, and this won’t help him in the least. Settle._

            It takes a minute or so for the paralysing shame and accompanying rapid heartbeat to fade, but John’s patient. He can control himself. Once he’s confident that he’s not going to say anything embarrassing over the phone, he unlocks the screen once more and composes a reply.

_That’s not how it works. At all. We’ll talk when you get here. (I’m not angry.)_

            He figures that last part is necessary, considering that the last time he proposed a “talk,” Sherlock was convinced that he was about to receive his first punishment at John’s hands. God, but this is so complicated. John slides down into his chair and fingers the edge of the blanket absentmindedly, shaking his head. After a moment of contemplation, he glances over to make sure that the front door is closed, then allows himself to pull the blanket into his lap and hug it tightly, pretending that he’s burying his face into the neck of his submissive.

            God, it’s pathetic. But it does help.

 

* * *

 

            Sherlock studies his phone, face carefully blank, until the screen goes dark, then flicks his thumb over it to light it up again. _That’s not how it works_ stands out starkly, black text on white, yet Sherlock can’t quite wrap his head around the idea.

            Why are his limits off-limits? He understands, of course, that they’re not meant to show up in everyday play; they’re things he dislikes, that make his skin crawl just contemplating them. But a punishment is supposed to be unpleasant: a deterrent. What else is John going to do to condition him against certain behaviours if he refuses to do what makes Sherlock unhappy? He supposes there must be some middle ground; after all, he’d hardly call Molly’s punishments of choice things that go against his limits, but they’re also not particularly good at altering his behaviour. As much as he detests the idea, he knows that John is going to have to be firm if he expects Sherlock to change. He will have to apply pain, will have to get into Sherlock’s psyche and figure out what hurts and then take advantage of that if he wants to impress his Dominance onto Sherlock’s subconscious.

            He shoves aside the pang in his chest at the thought and focuses instead on the buildings flashing by outside the window, trying to ignore the soft fluttering desires in the back of his mind that whisper dangerous fantasies about John. They tantalise him, dangling before him every idle thought he’s entertained about John’s hands, his lips, how lovely it would feel to kneel before him and be able to let go without fearing his touch or what orders would come once he was no longer aware to defend himself. They mock him and remind him that he is unworthy; he wants to offer himself to John, wants to please him so very badly (and to be taken care of in return), yet even the simple act of contemplating it paralyses him with fear. It has driven him to draw his own blood. Will John punish him for his lack of trust if he finds out? Sherlock thinks not, hopes not, but he cannot be certain. Not until he sees John’s contract.

            He will learn, today, whether or not he will be safe with John Watson, and that realisation is enough to make his heart rise in his throat.

            “Oi, mate,” the cabbie barks at him, throwing him from his reverie. “You gonna be sick? You’re half green.”

            Or perhaps that’s just breakfast. Sherlock shakes his head weakly, but the cab’s already pulling over to the kerb.

            “Here. Close enough.” The cabbie shoots him a pointed look, and Sherlock sighs, reaching for his wallet.

            He’s about a block from John’s flat when he exits the car, but that’s fine. The walk will give him just enough time to compose himself into something that won’t startle Mrs Hudson. Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes in to the count of three, then touches his chest pocket and sets off.

 -

            “Sherlock, darling!” Mrs Hudson fusses over him as he enters the flat, taking his coat and brushing off the sleeves of his suit jacket even though there’s hardly a speck of lint to be found. Normally this type of sub-to-sub grooming irritates him, but Sherlock finds John’s landlady rather charming, and he doesn’t mind letting her indulge. “You look absolutely dashing. Are you and John going out again?”

            “Not today, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock replies with a smile. “Just writing up our contract.”

            Perhaps it’s a bit premature, as Molly and John and even Mycroft have said, but it’s still a momentous occasion and at least someone is finally giving it the excitement it deserves; Mrs Hudson’s face lights up in delight at his words and she reaches up a hand to pat his cheek tenderly.

            “Oh, isn’t that lovely,” she exclaims. “Go right on upstairs, dear. Have fun.” With a final soft tap, she turns around and bustles back into her rooms, humming as she goes.

            Sherlock glances up the stairs, smile fading slightly as his hand strays to his shirt pocket again. Suddenly, he’s struck with the desire to rewrite his list—it’s foolish, and almost certainly not what John is expecting out of this relationship. He doesn’t want John to look at him with pity in his eyes, to think that he has to coddle Sherlock as a result of what’s happened to him. He’s told John that he can provide him with whatever he needs, and he meant it. But Molly would be angry with him if he changed the plan now, and Lestrade would be disappointed, and _John—_

            No. It’ll stay the way it is. Giving himself one last look-over, Sherlock straightens his jacket and begins to climb the stairs.

 -

            The sight that greets him when he enters the flat is very much unexpected; John is sitting slouched in his chair, arms wrapped around a doubled-over flannel blanket, eyes closed. Sherlock pauses on the threshold for a moment, uncertain, then coughs. It’s a bit awkward, but does the job; John startles upright, looking first at him, then at the blanket, expression blank as if he hadn’t realised what he’d been doing.

            “Are you all right?” Sherlock prompts him when he doesn’t speak. “You weren’t sleeping.”

            “No, I wasn’t.” John stares at the blanket a moment longer, lips pursed, then folds it and hangs it over the back of the chair again. “God, that’s not how I wanted to start this off.”

            The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches upwards. “It’s fine,” he says. “May I sit?”

            “What? Oh, yeah, yeah, sure.” John gestures to the other armchair (does he never sit in it?), and gets up to enter the kitchen as Sherlock takes his seat. John is anxious; why is he anxious? Because Sherlock saw him in an emotionally compromised position? Possibly. Or it could be because of the text. Ah, the text.

            “So how _does_ it work?” he asks, tilting his head. John just frowns at him from where he’s gathering something—biscuits, from the sound of the packaging. Still a bit off balance.

            “How does what work?”

            Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. Does John even remember what he’d called him here for?

            “Punishment,” he clarifies, lacing his fingers in front of his mouth. “Since apparently I was going about it wrong, before. How would you do it, as my Dom?”

            John’s shoulders straighten in what appears to be an unconscious motion (he likes that, likes the idea of owning Sherlock) and by the time he returns to his seat, biscuits in hand, his posture has calmed and his eyes are much more contemplative.

            “I wouldn’t use your limits, for one,” he replies. “Did you ask for that, before, or did your Doms just shove it on you?”

            “Of course I didn’t _ask_ for it.” Sherlock can’t quite hold back his irritation at the ridiculous question, but refrains from saying anything more scathing. “It makes sense, though, doesn’t it?”

            He expects John to get angry, perhaps start another lecture on how he doesn’t understand the first thing about being a sub, but John says nothing. Merely raises his eyebrows as a signal to continue.

            “The discipline aspect of the relationship between a Dominant and a submissive requires the careful conditioning of the behaviour of the sub by the Dom. This requires punishment.” Sherlock glares at John as if daring him to contradict his words. “ _Punishment_ , by definition, is required to be unpleasant. It’s the infliction of a penalty as retribution for an offence. My limits are things that I find unpleasant. Therefore, they make perfect punishments.”

            “Nope,” John replies calmly, shaking his head. “If you write your limits like everyone else I know, they’re not just things you don’t like. You’re not going to write “waking up with a hangover” under your limits. You’re going to write things that really hurt you, things that you don’t think you could handle if someone else imposed them on you. Did you write them like that?”

            Sherlock bites the inside of his lip and then nods, eyes fixed on a particularly threadbare part of the carpet by John’s left foot.

            “Good,” John murmurs. Sherlock’s gaze flicks up, startled; John’s praising him for _that?_ God, that’s hardly even an effort on his part, it’s just something that everyone _does_ , naturally. It’s not even worth recognition.

            “But punishment isn’t just about me whacking you when you’ve done something wrong,” John continues, either oblivious to or ignoring the incredulous look Sherlock is giving him. “You’re not a dog, Sherlock, you’re a human being and the punishment has to fit the crime. That actually requires some creativity on my part, not just self-sacrifice on yours.”

            “And what would that look like?” Sherlock demands, resolutely not rising to the bait. “If you won’t hit me—”

            “Never said I wouldn’t do that.” John’s voice is suddenly playful as he leans back in his armchair, leaning his head on a loose fist. “Just that punishment isn’t _only_ about that.”

            “Yes. Well.” Sherlock clears his throat, discomfited. “The question still stands. What would a punishment look like, coming from you?”

            “That was actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” John’s eyes grow serious and he passes his knuckles over his mouth before he sits up, reaching over to exchange the biscuits for a paper from the side table. “I wanted to make sure that I didn’t put anything from your limits on the list. Do you have yours with you?”

            Reluctantly, Sherlock plucks his paper from his shirt pocket and begins to toy with the already well-worn creases. He’s about to hand it over—has already sent the message to extend his elbow—when he catches a glimpse of John’s list. The paper is practically full, with underlines and writing on both sides. He thinks of his own: sparse, hesitant lines littered with erasure marks that scarcely fill half the page. He pulls his arm back.

            “It’s… a bit rough,” he lies. _Coward._ “Cross-outs and such. I was writing it a bit stream-of-consciousness, but I can still tell you what’s on it.”

            “All right.” John sounds a bit wary, but doesn’t call Sherlock out on it or demand to see the paper anyway. Small mercies. “First things first, then, I suppose. Do you have anything against being restrained? Gags, blindfolds, that sort of thing?”

            The question takes him by surprise, and Sherlock just barely manages to suppress the full-body shudder that goes through him at John’s words. It must have been more noticeable than he'd thought, however, because John breaks in at once, voice low and soothing. “It’s all right, Sherlock. We don’t have to do that, it’s fine.”

            “No, I—” Sherlock swallows. _Control yourself. You’ve only just gotten started._ “Restraining is fine. With some conditions, but… fine. It was the… gagging, that bothered me. I need to be able to call for you.” His cheeks burn as he says it and he looks down at his hands, knuckles white as they clench around flimsy paper. It’s pathetic; he ought to be able to trust his Dom whether he can speak or not. And what if John wants to quiet him for some reason? Perhaps they’ll be able to compromise, further on, but for now the hazy memories of _air, no air, need to breathe, please,_ and the even hazier wisp of fear that he’s been abandoned forever and if he could only call Master’s name _louder_ then maybe he’d come back, weigh heavily on his chest and he cannot accept it. Not yet.

            “Okay,” John says, voice still calm as if his desire is perfectly normal. “What conditions? Do you mind your hands being tied, or…?”

            “No, that’s acceptable,” Sherlock replies. He can break out of most handcuffs and rope ties fairly easily. “But I’d prefer not to be tied while I’m asleep, or in such a way as to restrict my breathing, or…” he hesitates. “That would force my legs to remain spread. If at all possible.”

            God, this is even more excruciating than discussing things with Molly. He doesn’t even have to say what he’s been through, this time—John can simply read it on his face and in the hidden spaces between the acts he refuses to do. It’s humiliating.

            “Of course.” John’s face is a bit pale when Sherlock dares to glance up at him, but to his credit he says nothing and moves on. “Now, Molly would cuff you to the gate pretty often, at Bart’s, as a punishment. Is that something you’d want me to do, too, or—”

            “No.” The word is out of Sherlock’s mouth before he can stop himself, and he winces as John blinks at him in surprise. “I mean… no, I’d rather not continue that specific punishment. I… dislike it.”

            “Does Molly know that?” John asks after a moment of silence. His voice is mild, but Sherlock knows him well enough by now to recognise the concern lurking behind the words. He shakes his head.

            “I never told her.” The shame he feels at admitting that is only compounded by the look of disbelief that John shoots at him after. He’s disappointed. He _never_ wants to disappoint John. “I’m sorry.”

            “You ought to be,” John scolds him. “Christ, Sherlock, why wouldn’t you _tell_ her about something like that? She wouldn’t have hurt you for it.”

            “But she would have asked _why_ ,” Sherlock snaps, voice hard, “and I didn’t want to discuss it with her. It was easier just to accept it and keep her from fussing.”

            “Easier on her, or on you?”

            Sherlock’s drawn up short. He stares at John, eyes wide, and tries to come up with something caustic. He fails.

            “You don’t need to answer that,” John informs him quietly. “I was just trying to make a point. But, Sherlock, I do want you to tell her when you go home today. That’s my first order for you, all right?”

            Sherlock frowns. Not only does this command do absolutely nothing to gratify John in any way, but the way in which it’s phrased almost seems as if he’s asking permission. Still, he’s hardly going to argue with John about it at this point in the game, so he nods and carefully categorises the adrenaline-like sensation that trickles down his spine in slow motion and branches out like roots through his nerves.

            “Thank you.” John smiles at him, then reaches over to the side table and grabs the packet of hobnobs, holding it out for Sherlock to take. “Here, eat something while I write this down. Do you have a safeword?”

            “Mycroft,” Sherlock replies quietly, taking a single biscuit and leaning back in his chair. It’s embarrassing, using his brother as a safeword, but ever since _that day_ Mycroft’s name has meant shelter to his unconscious mind, and now he could not undo the association if he tried. He takes consolation in the fact that the name is an unusual one, and it’s unlikely that John will ever learn what it means. Mycroft is not someone who will easily show up in a google search, after all.

            “Mine’s Kandahar.” John glances up at him, pencil still for a moment. “You’re not surprised that I have one, are you?”

            “No. Molly has one, too.” Sherlock takes another bite of his biscuit, studying John as he continues to write. “Though I can’t really see what you’d need it for. Your role doesn’t put you in quite as vulnerable a position as mine.”

            “You’d be surprised,” John says cryptically. He writes for a moment longer, than lays his pencil down on the table and offers the paper to Sherlock. “Read it over. Tell me if there’s anything you don’t like or want me to change.”

            Sherlock’s pulse picks up, and suddenly his palms feel damp. Resisting the urge to wipe them on his trousers, however, he reaches out and plucks the sheet from John’s hand.

            The front of the contract is tame enough; it’s just a list of the limits that they agreed upon back at Angelo’s with a few added guidelines that make his chest feel feather-light even as they puzzle his brain. John is giving him far too much freedom in this. _Either party may decline with no punishment involved?_ Perhaps he’ll ask Sherlock to prove “emotional distress” before he relents, but that’s still a very strong out to give to a new sub.

            The three activities John lists at the bottom give him pause as well. Not because any are particularly alarming, but because they are almost exact copies of what he himself has written on his own list. That seems entirely too coincidental to be plausible, and he tries to caution himself even as something hopeful starts to thump in his chest.

            Even if he takes them as honest (and, really, what else could they be? John was hardly looking over his shoulder in Molly’s flat), that doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods quite yet. It’s highly doubtful that John is only interested in three different activities with his subs, and Sherlock _had_ interrupted him fairly early on in the brainstorming process. It’s quite likely that there’s a much longer list hiding away in John’s head that Sherlock will have to coax out of him, but that’s fine. They have time. He flips the paper over.

_ Punishments _ _:_

_Sex will never be used as punishment._

_John will never administer a punishment while angry._

_No gagging_

_Bondage, if used in punishment, will be light and will not include Sherlock’s neck or legs._

_Sherlock will not be handcuffed outside as punishment._

_John will make sure for every punishment that Sherlock understands what is going to happen, why he is being punished and what he is expected to learn._

_The intensity and type of punishment will fit the infraction._

_If Sherlock becomes distressed at any point, he may tell John and the punishment will stop._

            “What do you think?” John asks tentatively after they’ve been sitting in silence for several minutes. “If you don’t like something, you can just tell me. I won’t mind.”

            “No, no, I—” Sherlock’s voice catches in his throat and he needs to clear it a few times before he’s able to continue. “It… all sounds rather marvellous, actually. Is this everything?”

            “Just about,” John replies. A warm, pleased smile is growing on his face in response to the compliment, and Sherlock can feel the faint stirrings of one playing on his own lips as well. “I want to add a few more things from your end, and then I think we can sign it—as a provisional, mind—if you’re happy with it.”

            “That’s fine.” Sherlock hands the paper back and steeples his fingers together again. “What would you like to know?”

            John shrugs. “Anything, really. Any limits we haven’t mentioned, anything you particularly like, what sort of routine you’d like us to have.”

            “Nothing strenuous,” Sherlock replies immediately. “I don’t need to be put under very often.” John frowns at that (he’s disappointed, why is he disappointed?), and Sherlock’s stomach feels as if he’s missed a step going down the stairs.

            “That doesn’t mean that I won’t submit to you if you require it,” he amends placatingly. “I’ve no problem with that. I only meant that you needn’t worry about constantly providing me with scenes. I can get by perfectly well experiencing subspace two to four times a month.”

            “It’s no trouble planning scenes for you, Sherlock,” John says slowly, brows furrowed. “I don’t want you worrying about that. I like doing it.”

            “Yes, well—”

            “How often do you scene with Molly?” John’s tone is firm, and although it’s not a command, Sherlock can feel his mind responding as if it had been, pushing him bodily towards an answer that he knows John will not like.

            “We… don’t,” he admits at last, dropping his gaze to his lap. “Not formally, at least.”

            “What does that mean?”

            Sherlock closes his eyes. “It means that in the five weeks that I’ve been wearing Molly’s collar, I have never submitted to her in any formal, ritualized capacity. I’ve gone into subspace on several occasions, but they were events triggered by… biological necessity more than anything else.”

            John is silent for a long time. “How long has it been, then, since you’ve…” His question trails off with a vague wave of his hand, but it’s easy enough for Sherlock to figure out what he wants to say.

            “Since I’ve willingly kneeled before a Dom and been put under in a consensual scene? My last attempt was approximately two weeks before I went to live with Molly. It’s been much longer since the last time it went well.”

            He expects John to be irritated. To chastise him, perhaps, about not taking proper care of himself. What he doesn’t expect is for John’s voice to take on a pained incredulity that sounds so much like Lestrade that it forces his head up in surprise.

            “Jesus, Sherlock!” John exclaims, eyes wide in astonishment. “How the hell are you still lucid? Two months without subspace—”

            “More than that,” Sherlock interjects, a bit puzzled. “But I’m fine, John, really. I’m used to it.”

            “But you shouldn’t _be_ used to it.” There’s a plaintive note in John’s voice, now, and Sherlock notices his hands clenching and unclenching on the armrests of his chair. “For God’s sake, three weeks without a sub and _I_ turn into a wreck. How are you managing it?”

            “Rather poorly, as of late,” Sherlock admits. “I’ve been falling into micro ‘spaces with Molly, and they’re terribly distracting. If you wanted to do a quick scene to top me up later this week, I wouldn’t mind, but like I was saying, as long as we have some sort of routine I’m sure I’ll be able to adapt just fine.”

            “That’s not—” John cuts himself off and looks up at the ceiling, breathing in obviously measured time. The uneasy feeling grows in Sherlock’s gut; he knows he’s disappointed John in several ways during this conversation, but his reassurances seem to be doing more harm than help. Apparently John wants to be told neither to worry nor work less, which is baffling on multiple levels. Would he rather Sherlock kneel before him and beg to be given relief? _“Please, John, I haven’t knelt to anyone in two months and I desperately need someone to Dominate me”_? His face floods with heat at the thought and he sets his jaw firmly. He will not humiliate himself with John; of that much he is certain.

            But John does not ask for that. Rather he seems to have come to a decision, and nods to himself before looking back down at Sherlock.

            “Okay,” he says, just enough Dominance sprinkled into his tone to force Sherlock to sit up and take notice. “This is what we’re going to do. I need two more bits of information from you, and then I’ll know how to go forward.” He leans forward in his chair, and Sherlock finds himself mirroring him unconsciously, curious.

            “They’re a bit related,” John continues. “I want to know what you want us to do about titles, and whatever you choose is going to set the tone of what type of relationship this is. For example, I’m pretty confident you’re not a little, or a pony, or interested in master/slave. Am I right?”

            “Yes.” Sherlock’s pulse, which had finally managed to settle itself into a relatively relaxed rhythm, picks up again. He could tell John. Two little words, one if he thinks John would be clever enough to pick up on it. Molly would be so proud of him, would call him brave, and he highly doubts that John would refuse him anything at this point if he claimed it would satisfy his needs.

            But the likelihood that it’s something John himself would enjoy is statistically very low. Petplay is a somewhat rare predilection, even more so after a certain age, and Sherlock is no longer a teenager wanting to express fond love for a partner through chaste, affectionate nuzzling. He’s a grown man, and after a certain point the innocence of this type of play turns into something warped, perverse, akin to bestiality in the eyes of many. The idea that John would believe this of him, or worse, laugh at him while he is insensate and later complain to his friends about how boring his new submissive is, makes Sherlock’s chest constrict and he immediately rejects the thought.

            “Well?” John’s watching him, posture open. He wouldn’t laugh if Sherlock said it, at the very least not to his face; he’d dutifully put it down on the contract, and then carry it out, and most likely do it well. But then Sherlock would always be conscious of the resentment, confusion, and distaste that John would almost certainly try to hide, and then everything would crumble out from beneath them, and he _cannot_ let that happen, not when he’s already come so far.

            He shakes his head. “I don’t need us to play out any specific roles, but if you’d like us to adopt one, I’m not averse to mild service submission.”

            “Very mild, I’ll bet,” John replies jokingly. “I can’t really see you being the type to make breakfast in the morning if you can’t even bother to eat half the time.”

            “I would do it for you, though,” Sherlock says. “If there wasn’t a case on, or something more pressing taking up my time, I could accept a standing order to prepare the flat for you in the mornings.”

            He hadn’t intended for the remark to mean anything particularly significant, yet John’s looking at him with the same soft, unguarded expression he’d worn during their dinner at Angelo’s, and Sherlock is suddenly struck with the sensation that he’s been a bit too candid too soon.

            “Or,” he suggests, a bit hurriedly, “we could just continue on as we have been. Just for a week or so, to see where we settle naturally. No point forcing it, after all.”

            “No,” John agrees, voice thoughtful. “I suppose not.” He takes up the pencil again and bows his head over the paper. “We’ll keep it open ended for now, then, and I’ll make a note to re-examine it next weekend. Names as titles okay until we do?” He glances up at Sherlock to catch his nod, and then the soft scratching of the pencil fills the flat.

            Sherlock can hardly breathe. He could still say something. Right now, he could ask for anything, or tell John to never mind, and it would happen. Right now, he has control.

            _Do it,_ Molly urges him. _He won’t hurt you, he won’t be angry. Trust him._

            “Here.” John’s voice is soft as he offers Sherlock the paper. He’s signed his name, in black ink, beneath the list of guidelines they have just spent the last hour writing together, and beside it has drawn another black line where Sherlock’s name is undoubtedly meant to go.

            “Look over it one last time,” John tells him. “You’ll be able to change things later if you want, but I want you to make sure that you’re happy with it as it is now.”

            The words blur in front of Sherlock’s eyes. His skin feels hot, and he’s not entirely sure that he’s getting enough air as he breathes. _John._ John wants to be with him, has written a contract with him. They’ve barely known each other a week, yet John follows him around to crime scenes and thinks he’s brilliant and not a freak of nature and with only the barest knowledge of Sherlock’s past and preferences has managed to write a contract on his own that is already twenty times better than any that Sherlock has dictated or fought for in the past.

            Sherlock has five months to decide if he wants to stay with John Watson.

            He highly doubts it will take him that long.

            With a shaking hand (the tremor is slight, so slight but hopefully if John notices he will interpret it as excitement, rather than fear) Sherlock accepts the pen and lays the contract flat on the side table. He reads the words, _Provisional Contract, Sunday, November 28, 2010. Dominant: Doctor John Watson._ He lowers his hand to the paper and, with only a moment of hesitation, signs himself away.

            _Submissive: Sherlock Holmes._


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry (late) Christmas! I would have posted this yesterday, but I wanted to give it one more read-through and I'm glad I did- the whole last page got reworked over a period of about four hours this morning, so I hope you enjoy it. I'm a little nervous about this chapter, to be honest; I was hit with a bit of doubt about the story this last week and had a hard time working up the motivation to write. I also feel like I wasn't as strong, prose-wise, in this chapter as I have been, but I sincerely hope that's just a product of writing it and staring at it day after day. I do have ideas for the next chapter and for the story beyond- they're starting to accumulate like snowflakes, now- so hopefully things will be a bit smoother. (Although we do have the case to get back to eventually, but hey. We deserve a nice long D/s interlude after all the work we took to get here. :P)
> 
> But anyway, enough of my rambling. I hope you all had a lovely holiday and I hope that you enjoy the chapter.

            It’s all a bit anticlimactic, this signing yourself away to a new Dom business, Sherlock figures.

            In the thirty seconds that have elapsed since the signing of their contract, John has not suddenly grabbed him, nor demanded any sort of service, nor stood up to tower over him, nor even directed him to the floor where he, as a sub, undoubtedly belongs. Instead, he seems content just to look at Sherlock, chin resting on his hand and a soft smile on his face as if nothing has changed between them at all.

            Sherlock’s heart is still hammering in his chest, but the sensation is fading the longer John goes without asking anything of him. The notion is, of course, ridiculous; John is his Dom now, and he can’t afford to dread his commands. Still, he can’t quite help but feel as though he’s standing in the doorway of the little gingerbread house in the woods, trying to decide if it’s safe enough to go in, and he’s grateful to John for allowing him to make the first move.

            “So,” he says at last, voice forcibly light. “What now?”

            He’s not quite sure what he’s expecting. John is kind, and thoughtful, and has proven these two qualities over and over again during their first few days together. There’s no reason to believe that now, due to Sherlock’s signature on a piece of notebook paper, John will abruptly turn harsh and cruel and demand that Sherlock repeat humiliating things as he submits.

            That doesn’t make it any less surprising when John turns his right hand palm side up and crooks two fingers gently in an unmistakeable _come here_ motion.

            “Come sit by me,” he says. It’s a weak command, practically a suggestion, but Sherlock obeys anyway and slides fluidly off of his chair and onto his knees. An embarrassed heat threatens to take over his face as he begins to crawl, but he throws his head back and manages the metre and a half it takes to reach John’s feet with his dignity (mostly) intact. Once there, he sits back on his ankles and looks up at John expectantly. John smiles.

       “Put your head down,” he says. “I’m going to touch your neck a bit. You can lean on my knee if you want.”

       _If you want._ Sherlock’s not quite sure where that fits on the scale of command, but decides to err on the side of caution and lets his cheek brush against the side of John’s denim-clad knee as he bares his neck.

       “Good,” John murmurs, and then he presses two fingers firmly against Sherlock’s vertebrae.

       It’s a bit strange at first. Not the act in and of itself (John’s touched his neck often enough by this point to make it a pleasantly familiar sensation), but because Sherlock is doing it as the result of an order instead of voluntarily offering himself up to entice John. That’s not to say this is _involuntary_ , he reminds himself. He’s perfectly willing to let John express his Dominance this way, since there’s only a _very_ slim chance that John will take advantage of his vulnerable state and dig in his nails, or move his hand down towards his arse, or—

       “Shh, Sherlock,” John admonishes him. Sherlock frowns, confused; surely he hadn’t been _saying_ any of those things? But John just smoothes a hand along Sherlock’s fringe, brushing the curls out of his face with care.

       “You’re thinking,” he says in a soft voice. “I don’t want you to think. I want you to relax.”

       Relax. He can do that, can’t he? Sherlock nods and then rolls out his shoulders, trying to loosen his muscles for John. Breathe in, tense up. Breathe out, let go. Breathe in… breathe out.

       He’s so focussed on monitoring his breathing that when John speaks up again, it makes his shoulders jerk in surprise.

       “Very good, Sherlock.” His voice is warm, and proud, and while Sherlock is sure he hasn’t done anything near good enough to merit that sort of tone from John yet, it makes something pleased curl inside of his chest to hear it and he rubs his cheek a bit more firmly against John’s leg.

       “Now.” John’s thumb presses against the muscle behind his ear, working at the tension there that Sherlock hasn’t been able to breathe away. “I want you to tell me something, Sherlock. Can you still speak?”

       “Mm,” Sherlock hums. Of course he can speak. He will always speak for John, if John wants it.

       “Good. What do you need me to do next?”

       Sherlock can’t help but glance upwards, because what John just said is _wrong_. It’s not his choice what happens now; John’s allowed to do whatever he pleases, that’s why he’s the Dom. Is John testing him? Perhaps. …Yes, that would make sense. John is testing him and Sherlock knows the answer and John is going to be so, so pleased with him for knowing it.

       “Whatever you like,” he replies confidently. “Your choice.”

       “No,” John says firmly, and Sherlock’s heart falls a little bit, but John doesn’t sound angry at him for getting it wrong. Rather, he’s speaking as if he’s trying to teach Sherlock something, and so Sherlock does his best to perk his brain up and pay attention.

       “That’s not a good answer,” John tells him as he continues to stroke behind Sherlock’s ear, “because you weren’t listening to me. I asked you what you needed, Sherlock, and I’d like you to tell me. Unless of course what you need is for me to take control, complete control. I can do that. But I wanted to give you a choice, in case you needed one.” He raises his eyebrows. “Do you?”

       Sherlock ponders the concept. Normally, in these types of situations, he’s good at taking what he’s been given. Oh, he negotiates extensively beforehand, of course, hammering out the specifics of what can and absolutely cannot be done to him whilst in scene, but then once the collar’s on, his mind is for all intents and purposes gone and he is at the Dom’s mercy to see if they will keep their word. It’s never occurred to him that he could ask anything of his Dom once the scene has started. He’d never even thought it possible. But perhaps now, with John…

       “I’d like it if you could touch my hair,” he begins tentatively. “Please. Or just my face and neck, that would be fine, too, and… if you could possibly tell me that I’m…” he hesitates. John might think it too much, too presumptuous, too soon. He hasn’t done anything to please John yet, but just thinking of John’s voice saying the words sends a shiver down his spine and he has to ask, has to try. He swallows. “…That I’m a good boy. I would appreciate it.”

       John’s voice is whisper soft as he speaks again. “It’s no more than you deserve, Sherlock. Don’t be embarrassed to ask.”

       “Don’t,” Sherlock says, and butts his head against John’s palm before he can think about what he’s doing. “Don’t say anything, please. It’s all fine, I promise, just—please just touch me.”

       “Okay,” John murmurs, relenting. “Lie down on the floor. Whatever position you think is most comfortable.”

       Sherlock ends up curling into a loose semi-circle in the middle of the carpet, cheek resting on his crossed forearms as John relocates to the floor and kneels alongside him. Sherlock watches him carefully until he settles, then closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh. John’s going to touch him, but everything’s going to be fine. John won’t hurt him. He promised.

       “Tell me if you particularly like or dislike something,” John instructs him, and then his fingers are sliding into the curls at the base of Sherlock’s scalp and he can’t help it; he lets out a long, low moan of pleasure at the touch and twists his spine in John’s direction.

       “There,” he whispers. “There, John, please, and above my ears. My forehead.”

       “One at a time,” John teases him gently. “I’ll get everywhere, don’t worry.” His other hand does join in, though, kneading at Sherlock’s forehead, and everything goes quiet for a while.

       Sherlock doesn’t know how long John touches him for. He’s barely aware of anything, really, only that John rolls him over at some point so that he can reach the other side of Sherlock’s scalp, but it hardly matters. He’s floating along on a sea of pleasure, has been for what feels like an age, white noise purring in the background of his brain. It’s perfect.

       At last John’s hands begin to slow, however, and Sherlock lets out a quiet noise of protest. He cuts it off quickly—doesn’t want to irritate John, after all, and he’s been given more than enough attention for one sitting—but John only chuckles and ruffles his hair.

       “Liked that, did you?” he asks, sitting back on his heels. Sherlock murmurs something wordless and looks up at John with half-lidded eyes, feeling boneless and content. God, but it’s been so long since he’s felt this way. It feels like someone’s taken a sponge to his brain and scrubbed away every scrap of tension that’s built up over the past few days, months, years. He could stay like this for hours and never get bored. Pity he probably won’t get to.

       “What now?” he asks. His jaw is loose and his words are slurred, but he’s not too far gone to realise that he needs to pull himself together. He’s been far too selfish during this encounter; surely John must want something by now? He glances down at the vee of John’s thighs but can’t see anything that indicates whether or not he is interested sexually at the moment.

       He’s unsure if he ought to feel relieved or disappointed by that.

       “Well, for now you can just enjoy the glow,” John tells him, sliding a hand gently along his shoulder. “When you’ve come out of it I can show you around the flat. Would you like that?”

       Sherlock blinks, and props himself up on one elbow to squint at John. “Am I moving in?”

       John’s face reddens. (Yes.) “Not _tonight_ , I didn’t mean—I was just going to ask you to sleep over, see how you like the flat. Do you mind?”

       “Of course I don’t _mind_ ,” Sherlock replies, voice rising a little bit as he forces himself a step or two out of subspace. “I told you I wanted to a—a few days ago, didn’t I?”

       “ _Down_ , Sherlock,” John chides him, “you don’t have to wake up yet. And yeah, you did.” John watches him for a moment longer, then pulls his mobile out of his pocket. “Is it all right if I text Molly, then? Ask her to bring over some of your things?”

       “Mm,” Sherlock agrees, and settles back down onto the floor to watch as John, slightly out of focus, turns on his phone and slowly begins to tap out a message.

       Apparently he’s allowed to relax now, which is a pleasant surprise. Most Doms demand their own satisfaction shortly after they’ve provided Sherlock’s, which almost always puts a damper on the glow of ‘space. John, on the other hand, is being wonderfully non-insistent, so Sherlock hums again, low in his throat, and scratches his cheek against the rough fibres of the carpet.

       Oh, that’s nice. He does it again and again, working at itches that John somehow hadn’t managed to satisfy during his earlier massage. The motion sends little sparks of pleasure skittering down his spine, welling up in his upper back to spread down into his lumbar and then to his coccyx, and he shifts with a breathy moan to turn onto his back in an attempt to try and prolong the sensation.

       The movement, however, pulls at the material of his jacket and he pauses as the fabric shifts uncomfortably. Why is he on the floor with his suit still on? He’s going to dirty it, or wrinkle it, or—

       _Oh, no._

       Sherlock’s eyes sink closed and his lips thin as heat blooms across his cheeks. He’s let himself fall too far. John’s massage had been exceptional, there’s no denying that, but he’d let the pleasure of his transport override his common sense and persuade him into thinking that it was all right to rub himself against the floor like an animal. God, what must John think? It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what sort of headspace he’d just been in.

       Cautiously, he opens one eye and glances towards John. He’d only been texting, after all, hardly the most attention-demanding activity in the world. He must have seen, or at least _heard_ —but no. Somehow, miraculously, John is still studiously tapping away at his phone with nary a glance in Sherlock’s direction, tongue sticking out from between his teeth in concentration. It’s Providence. But what’s got him so engrossed? Sherlock studies him carefully as he sits up, keeping his movements slow and uncoordinated so that if John _does_ look at him, he’ll still appear to be in subspace.

       It’s obvious that John is still texting Molly; they’d been in the middle (well, the tail end, really) of a scene when John had brought up his plan. Therefore, in John’s mind, he’s still supposed to be fulfilling the function of a Dom. He wouldn’t have let himself get distracted by other, extraneous conversations with his sub lying compliant before him—he’s shown too much concern for Sherlock’s comfort and well-being thus far to do that. Conclusion? There’s been a complication. Does Molly not want him to stay over at John’s? Unlikely. She’s given him permission to sign a second contract; what else would she expect Sherlock to do? Serve John from halfway across London? But then Molly’s always been frustratingly protective. Perhaps she just wants John’s word that he won’t use Sherlock too harshly too quickly.

       Or—Sherlock’s heart skips a beat as a thought occurs to him: he’s given Molly rather a lot of personal information over the last few days. What if she thinks that it’s need-to-know information for John, seeing as they’ve now made a commitment to one another? She’d want John to know what he was getting into, would want him to know Sherlock’s tricks and triggers so that he wouldn’t be able to fool John and dismiss himself the way he’d been doing with her up until this week.

       But no, that’s ridiculous. She’d promised him upon the signing of their contract that anything that happened between them would be kept confidential, even from Mycroft, and she’s done a remarkable job at keeping that promise. There’s no reason for her to have changed her stance now.

       So then _what_ are they talking about?

       Of course John chooses that moment to look up, and he does a double take as he sees that Sherlock is now sitting upright, arms around his legs and chin resting on his knees.

       “Oh,” he says, rather unintelligently. “You’re up.”

       “Yes.” There’s no point denying it; Sherlock’s eyes are focused and alert, his mind is no longer cloudy with uninhibited desires and there is none of the relaxed lassitude from John’s massage left over in his muscles. It hardly matters, however; he’s been put under, his submissive side soothed, and if the transition out wasn’t quite as pleasant as it could have been, that won’t take away from the benefits John’s ministrations have caused. It’s all fine.

       Except John’s lips press together in—disappointment? Had he been hoping to prolong the scene?—and for a moment something akin to guilt flares behind Sherlock’s ribs before he quickly shoves it back down and locks it away. If John resents the fact that he’s come out of ‘space already, well, Sherlock can’t help it, now can he? He’s hardly the one who’s supposed to be controlling his brain chemistry here, after all.

       “Shall we look at the flat, now?” he asks, more nonchalantly than he feels, before realising that that’s not actually his call any longer. His cheeks flush in embarrassment and he ducks his head. “Sorry. I meant—”

       “It’s okay, Sherlock.” John’s tone is amused, not angry, and when Sherlock glances back up at him, his eyes are twinkling and all traces of disappointment have left his face. “It takes a bit to get used to, I’m sure.”

       “Yes.” Suddenly feeling a bit vulnerable in his position on the floor, Sherlock stretches out his legs and stands, dusting off his suit as he goes. John copies him, and then begins to look around the flat in that awkward way people do when they have a guest over and aren’t quite sure where to start the tour. It’s endearingly un-Dom-like, and Sherlock can’t help but quirk up the corner of his mouth in an affectionate smile.

       “Let’s see.” John gestures around the room they’re standing in. “Living room, obviously. Books and TV all okay to touch. Fireplace works on gas, the switch is over there if you need it. Just remember to turn it off before you go to bed, if you end up staying up later than I do.” He flashes a teasing smile at Sherlock, who frowns slightly in confusion. Aren’t they going to bed together?

       Before he can ask, however, John’s moving on into the kitchen and pointing at random appliances and explaining their assorted temperaments, in case Sherlock finds himself using them at any point during his stay. He makes sure to pay careful attention to the workings of the stove and the teakettle (stovetop, not electric; old-fashioned; _John_ ), just in case John changes his mind and orders him to prepare breakfast. Then they’re moving on down the hallway where John gestures at the bathroom and the other closed door at the end of the hall.

       “That’s my room,” he says. “That’s where I keep most of my things, and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t take any of them out of there unless I tell you to or without asking. Okay?”

       Sherlock nods, adding the note to his accumulating mental list of preferences and orders, and John continues.

       “When we do scenes, they’ll probably either be in the living room or in my room, depending on what it is. Mrs Hudson’s usually good about privacy, but sometimes she can forget, so if it’s anything more intimate, it’s better to hide away when we do it.” His brow furrows suddenly, as if he’s just remembered something. “Will that be enough? I know you won’t submit out on the street, but do you need to keep it away from Mrs Hudson as well? I can make sure she knows to knock before coming in if you think it’ll make you uncomfortable.”

       Sherlock resists the urge to hunch his shoulders and look down in response to John’s words. They only serve to illustrate how much John is giving up for him, and while he knows that’s not John’s intention—his tone of voice is not long-suffering nor accusatory—he cannot help but feel as though John’s bending over backwards for him and not getting terribly much in return.

       “It’s fine,” he says quietly. “I trust your judgement.”

       “Sherlock.” John’s voice is firm, despite its gentleness, and the hint of command present forces Sherlock to meet his eyes, albeit reluctantly. “I appreciate the sentiment, really, but it’s not necessary right now. We’re still in preliminaries—if there’s something that bothers you, or that you need, I need to know now so I can make this work. _Do you_ want to keep this private, completely, from Mrs Hudson?”

       Sherlock hesitates. Mrs Hudson is elderly, and a submissive herself. It’s very unlikely that she’d think ill of him if she ever saw him submitting to John; in fact, she’d probably think it strange if she didn’t. Still, the idea of anyone else seeing him in that frame of mind—uninhibited, vulnerable—when he’s only just wrapping his head around _John_ being allowed to see him like that makes him want to cover his face in humiliation, and he twists his fingers together behind his back in an attempt to keep himself calm.

       “I’d prefer if she didn’t see us,” he says at last. “If that’s not too much trouble.”

       “Not at all,” John says with a smile. “I’ll let her know.”

       Alarm bells suddenly go off in Sherlock’s head.

       “Let her know how?” he demands. “You’re not going to tell her that I’m… _that_ , are you?”

       John raises an eyebrow. “That you’ve been abused? No, of course not. I’ll just tell her that you’re private, is all, and that she needs to knock and wait before coming in. She’ll understand.”

       Will she? It’s terribly difficult for older people to change their habits, especially on such short notice; there’s bound to be a mistake or two in the beginning, and then once he becomes a more frequent fixture in the household she’ll probably begin to disregard the injunction as something only necessary between strangers and start to come in as she pleases, and then this whole conversation will have been for nothing.

       But John is still looking up at him as though everything has been neatly settled and decided to his satisfaction, so Sherlock murmurs a thank you anyway and tilts his head to the side so that John can brush his fingers soothingly down the side of his neck.

       “Happy to help,” John replies, just as quietly. “Now, do you want to go see your bedroom?”

       Sherlock’s curiosity picks back up in a heartbeat. “My room?”

       “Yeah.” John’s hand shifts, and then his index finger is playing with the little curl at the base of Sherlock’s neck. It tickles, not unpleasantly. “I thought that’d be best, at least in the beginning. Gives you somewhere to retreat to, in case you need your own space. Do you mind?”

       Sherlock shakes his head. “No, actually I quite appreciate it. Where is it?”

       That makes John laugh for some reason, and he starts back down the hallway with a lighter step than before.

       “Just up the stairs,” he says. “You’ve actually got the better deal in some ways—it’s more private up there, but when I moved in I didn’t want to bother. Not with my leg.” He glances back at Sherlock as he opens the side door to the kitchen. “You will have to come downstairs for the bathroom, though. Mrs Hudson’s been thinking about at least putting a sink up there, but the cost of changing the plumbing in an old house like this would be a bit much for her.”

       Sherlock shrugs. “That’s fine. Molly’s flat only had the one bathroom as well.” Then the first half of what John said catches up to him and he frowns. “ _You_ were thinking about taking it? So it’s not a sub room, then?”

       “Sub room? No. Well. It’s smaller than mine, but it’s not so bad.” They’ve reached the top of the steps now, and John opens the door, stepping back so Sherlock can go in first. “What do you think?”

       _It’s marvellous,_ is what Sherlock thinks, but he doesn’t say that quite yet. The room comes furnished with a bed, a proper bed, and he goes over to sit on the bare mattress to test its give. Springs. He must have made a face, because John laughs again as he leans against the open door.

       “It is a bit old,” he says apologetically. “Mrs Hudson’s had it up here for a while in case of guests. If you like we can get you a new mattress, something more comfortable.”

       Another favour. (Too many, by this point. Unbalanced. He’s going to ask for something in return. Decline.) Sherlock hesitates, then shakes his head.

       “That’s very kind of you,” he says, “but really, John, it’s fine. I’m grateful for the space. It’s at least twice as big as my room at Molly’s.” He flashes what he hopes is a reassuring smile, although it loses some of its brightness when John doesn’t respond in kind. “Besides—” he doesn’t need to say this, saying it means John will start thinking about it, will start thinking that it’s _fine_ , but he needs something to distract John, to dissuade him from this damnable, wonderful generosity that’s only going to sour with time when Sherlock doesn’t—can’t—reciprocate, “we don’t know if I’ll even need the room after this week is up. I might just end up sleeping with you in yours.”

       John doesn’t say anything at first, but Sherlock knows better than to take that as a rejection. John’s eyes had widened, ever so slightly, at his words, and—there!—his tongue’s just darted out to wet his lips. He likes the mental image. Good. Or… not so good. Sherlock’s heart sinks as he realises the idiocy of what he’s just done. He’s all but promised John sex in return for _not_ buying him a bed. He’s an idiot. A moron. What if John decides to take him up on the offer right _now,_ what if he thought it was flirting, a come on, a—

       “We’ll see,” John says at last. His voice is quiet, but somehow it manages to make Sherlock’s thoughts come to a crashing halt. “You said yourself we shouldn’t force it. Let’s just see where it goes, all right?”

       _All right._ Sherlock breathes, albeit with a bit of difficulty, and nods.

       “Good.” John looks like he’s about to say more, but then the doorbell buzzes and he promptly shuts his mouth again, turning his head to glance down the stairs.

       “Molly,” Sherlock remarks, surprised. “I thought it would have taken her at least ten more minutes to get here. Clever girl, she probably packed a bag this morning.”

       John frowns at him. “She couldn’t have known I was going to ask you to stay the night.”

       Sherlock shrugs. “If you hadn’t, I’d have likely asked to anyway. She knew that.” He stands before John can make anything out of his statement, then pauses and gestures towards the stairs. “Shall we?”

 

* * *

 

       Despite her earlier trepidation, Molly seems happy enough to see Sherlock as she enters the flat. She smiles warmly at him, and even offers him and John a hug once she’s put down the rucksack she’s brought with her onto the sofa.

       “There’s enough clothes for two days in there,” she says as Sherlock goes over to paw curiously through the contents, “just in case you decide you want to stay longer. I brought your laptop as well, and your phone charger. Anything else you need that I missed?”

       Not that Sherlock can see. Molly’s been rather thorough; even the little tube of cream he uses to tame his curls in the morning is in there, and he’d thought he’d done a good job of hiding it in the back of a cluttered drawer in Molly’s bathroom. He shakes his head. “I believe I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

       “Glad to help,” Molly says, tone upbeat. A bit overly so. Sherlock glances up at her and she lifts her eyebrows in response. Oh, she’s curious about the contract. But what does she expect him to say now? John’s here, however unobtrusive he’s trying to be standing in his spot by the bookshelf. He shakes his head slightly and resumes his perusal of the bag. Molly’s quiet for a moment. In response to the message, or because she hadn’t understood it?

       “Text me tomorrow with what you’ve decided,” Molly says at last. Didn’t understand, then. He’ll text her tonight. “By noon, please, or earlier if you need anything. Oh, and tell your brother you’ve contracted, too.”

       Sherlock sighs in exasperation. “Why should I? He’ll find out soon enough.”

       “Because he’ll be happy to hear it from you,” Molly chides him gently. “Now, I need to be off. You’ll behave for John, won’t you, Sherlock?”

       Sherlock looks at her. She’s tired, her hair is mussed, and two of the nails on her right hand are bitten down to the quick. She’s anxious, and still unsure if this is the best option for him, but she’s not telling him no. That’s momentous. It would have been ridiculously easy for her to have forbidden all of this, to tell him that no, he wasn’t ready for a new Dom, and to keep him away from John until they’d gone over every little particular trauma with a fine-toothed comb. Instead, she’s giving him the freedom to make his own decisions regarding his submission, and a swell of affection blooms in his chest at the realization.

       “Of course,” he replies softly. “Don’t worry about a thing, Molly. I’ll text you later.”

       Molly smiles at him, then nods a goodbye to John and exits the flat.

       They’re alone again.

       They are going to _be_ alone, Sherlock suddenly realises, with a sense of rising tension in his stomach, for the next eighteen to twenty-four hours. What are they going to _do_ together? They’ve already scened, although admittedly John hasn’t been served. Is that what he wants to do now? Sherlock was all but coming on to him upstairs; perhaps he’ll want him to follow through. (It wouldn’t be too difficult. He knows how to do it in order to end it quickly, and John’s been very considerate so far. If Sherlock tells him that he doesn’t need to get off in return—that he _enjoys_ denial, even—he doubts John would force the issue.)

       Or perhaps John doesn’t want that. It’s barely turned three o’clock in the afternoon, after all. He might save that for the evening, once they’ve had a chance to bathe and Sherlock’s been prepared properly, or at the very least been put under again. He shivers in revulsion at the thought and quickly sets it aside. _Not now._

       He ought to look at John. One look would tell him what John is thinking and help him to formulate a plan of action, but he can’t quite force himself to do so. If he looks he’ll _know,_ and for the moment it’s much more comforting to have that modicum of uncertainty.

       “You okay?”

       Sherlock immediately busies himself with the straps of the rucksack, pretending to adjust the length in preparation to pick it up. “Yes, fine. Absolutely fine.”

       “Look at me.”

       Sherlock glances over at John without turning his head. John hasn’t moved from his spot by the bookshelf and is now actually leaning against it, arms crossed loosely over his chest and head tilted slightly to the side. It’s an unthreatening, relaxed posture, and Sherlock finds himself responding in kind, shifting his body to face John a bit more head-on. “Yes?”

       “You’re nervous.” It’s not a question, but neither is it an accusation. Sherlock remains quiet and maintains eye contact.

       “It’s perfectly all right, you know,” John continues earnestly. “Being nervous around a new Dom. Is it just jitters, though, or have I done something to worry you already?”

       Sherlock shakes his head. John has done absolutely nothing wrong so far; in fact, he’s been more accommodating than any other Dom Sherlock’s ever met, including Irene (although, Sherlock admits, she might have modified her protocol for him, given time). The real problem is that he’s already managed to offer John something he really isn’t prepared to give, but he can’t take it back without embarrassing himself or making John wonder why it needs to be taken back in the first place.

       “Sherlock.” John’s tone takes on a hint of warning. “Talk to me.”

       “The text,” Sherlock blurts out, latching onto the first thing that comes to mind. “You were texting with Molly while I was under, but it went on longer than if you were just asking her to bring over some clothes. What were you talking about?”

       John stares at him, and belatedly Sherlock realises that perhaps that concern, while a valid one, is nowhere near grave enough to warrant the level of agitation he’d been displaying a moment ago. _Why_ must he keep cocking things up? He raises his hands, about to tug at his hair in frustration, but John makes a sharp _tch_ noise and he freezes in a mix of disbelief and incredulity.

       “You’re not to hurt yourself, Sherlock,” John reminds him sternly. “You know that. Now sit down on the couch.”

       Sherlock bristles, immediately on the defensive, but swallows his retort and settles himself beside the rucksack, arms crossed petulantly. John can’t punish him; he hasn’t actually broken any rule. Still, his shoulders tense as John pushes himself off the bookshelf and walks over, hunching up slightly once he’s within arm’s reach. John doesn’t end up slapping him, however, or even touching him at all. Instead, he stands in front of Sherlock for a moment, studying him silently before moving to sit beside him on the couch. Interesting.

       “I’m sorry,” he says at last. Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “I shouldn’t have been that distracted from you while you were under. I didn’t think you would notice, or that it would bother you if you did.” He rubs his knuckles over his mouth, a self-soothing gesture. “I don’t know what you think happened—all I asked was if it would be too much trouble to bring over some clothes and a toothbrush for you because you were going to stay at the flat. There was a bit of protocol to think about—should I ask permission or just tell her you were doing it—but she was fine with everything. The only problem was that she’d already left for her shift and had to double back to get your things. That’s all we were talking about, Sherlock, nothing else.”

       Oh. Sherlock suddenly feels very stupid, and very small. Of course it would be something utterly mundane that he’d got wrong. He hadn’t known that Molly was going in to work today, but emergency calls aren’t out of the ordinary. He ought to have taken that into account instead of getting alarmed and worrying John over nothing. Now John knows that Sherlock thinks so little of him that the idea of him taking the first opportunity he can to tease him or talk about him behind his back is an easy and plausible conclusion to jump to. He feels ashamed.

       “Hey.” John’s hand brushes gently over his cheek. “It’s all right, Sherlock. It happens sometimes. It’s fine.”

       Sherlock wants to shove John’s hand away. He doesn’t deserve to be touched right now, not after failing to exhibit the most basic level of trust for either of his Doms. He manages to keep himself still, even school his face into something resembling indifference, but John must be able read his body language and he lets out a quiet sigh as he lets go of Sherlock and pulls back.

       “All right,” he says, tone decisive. “Let’s do this. We’ll take an hour. You go upstairs, unpack, get settled, and text whoever you need to text. Relax. I’ll set up a few things down here, and then when the hour’s up we can have some tea, maybe start talking about tomorrow. Does that sound good?”

       Sherlock doesn’t reply right away. John is being kind to him, far too kind. In just one afternoon he’s signed on Sherlock as a sub, promised him his own bedroom, spontaneously offered several concessions that Sherlock would never have expected a Dom without Molly’s job to make, and forgiven him for several missteps of etiquette without threatening even the possibility of punishment. He cannot fathom John Watson, and the bubble of hope he can feel swelling inside his chest feels more like a time bomb the longer this goes on. He’s going to exhaust John’s goodwill, he knows it, and soon. All Doms have their limits. Even Molly. Even John.

       He’s been quiet for too long. It would take more courage than he has at the moment to lift his head and look John in the face, but he manages a small nod and is immediately rewarded by John’s hand on his shoulder, rubbing over the muscle in long, soothing strokes.

       “Good,” John murmurs. “Good boy, Sherlock.”

       He sounds hesitant, as if he’s unsure if Sherlock will appreciate or scoff at the praise in his current mindset, but the words set off a chain reaction of warmth pooling from the base of Sherlock’s throat down to his belly and he allows himself a quiet moment to bask in the pleasure before sliding out from beneath John’s touch to head towards the stairs.

       It’s a strange thought that goes through his mind, then, one he can remember thinking only a handful of times in his entire life. This time, however, he finds himself hoping it more strongly than he ever has before.

       Every Dom has their limits. This he knows. But maybe, just maybe, he’s wrong about John Watson. This he sincerely hopes is true.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter ended up taking way longer than anticipated, and for that I apologize. Part of it was block (writing in John's POV was really hard this time around), and part of it was starting the new semester at school, getting sick, and other assorted things. The chapter came out to 7800~ words, though, so I hope that makes up for some of the wait.
> 
> I have mixed feelings about this one: there are some bits that I'm really proud of, and there are other bits where I think I fell short on the writing. I felt like I had a hard time varying things like word choice and sentence structure, but then, maybe that's just me being hard on myself. I hope you guys enjoy it.

_I’ve contracted with John._

       One text, two recipients. Sherlock hovers his thumb for a moment over the send message button, indecisive, then scoffs at himself, stabs at it viciously, and settles himself down to wait on the bed, rucksack lying forgotten by the door.

       Surprisingly enough, it’s Lestrade who ends up responding first.

_That Dom you keep bringing around? Congratulations, he looks like a nice guy. Do you like him?_

_I’d thought that was fairly obvious. SH_

_Nothing’s obvious with you. Suppose I should have known, though, the way you were treating him last night. How long’s the contract for this time?_

_We didn’t specify a date. It didn’t seem to cross his mind, and I didn’t want to suggest a premature end unnecessarily. SH_

_Well, that’s good then. Or is it? Dyou feel safe with him?_

_Reasonably so. SH_

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

_It means that I’m fairly confident he won’t grab me by the hair and force me to perform oral sex on him or throw me to the floor and fuck me in the middle of the living room. As for whether I can trust him the way you all seem to want me to, that remains to be seen. SH_

       Lestrade’s next text delays a bit in its arrival.

_That’s… well. You don’t think you should have waited to sign until you were sure?_

_He refused to Dom me until we had a contract. I needed to know if we were compatible, so I rushed the process a bit. It’s fine. SH_

       His phone suddenly beeps with a message from a different number, and Sherlock switches over to the new conversation. It’s Mycroft, texting instead of calling for once. (Time to declare a new national holiday.)

_Are you safe?_

       Sherlock bristles at the question, but refrains from typing back anything inflammatory. A flippant response could result in threats against John if Mycroft’s feeling particularly meddlesome, up to and including sending an agent to come and collect him. He needs to play this politely.

 _For now, yes,_ he types. _John has been faultlessly respectful and is even letting me maintain my contract with Molly for the time being. Before you ask, Molly does know and is fine with everything. SH_

_And the contract with Doctor Watson?_

       Sherlock hesitates. _There is nothing on it that I find objectionable. SH_

Lestrade’s alert noise chimes again and Sherlock switches conversations with a grateful sigh. _Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you shouldn’t experiment with your personal safety?_

       Sherlock snorts. If he cared about safety, ‘detective’ probably wouldn’t have made the top of his career list. _I wouldn’t hold out too much hope. But don’t worry, you do such a lovely job at rescuing me. SH_

_That’s not funny, Sherlock. Look, just be careful, will you? There’re only so many times a bloke can take his friend to A &E in one lifetime._

_Don’t worry. I mean it. I’ve got you, Molly, and my brother all looking over my shoulder. I think I’ll be able to manage. SH_

       He pauses, thinks, then adds another text right after.

_I do, however, note and appreciate your concern. SH_

       Mycroft’s text noise sounds again and Sherlock sighs, tapping the notification. What else is there to say? They’ve done the contract, he’s fine with it and that’s that. That should be enough for Mycroft. As he reads the text, however, his eyes widen and a fierce coldness spreads throughout his chest, as acute as if he’d just swallowed a bucket of ice water.

_Good to hear. I look forward to seeing the finished product once it’s been signed and delivered to the nearest registrar. Do take care to make it legible if you handwrite it, would you? Not everyone can read that scrawl you call English._

       Sherlock’s hands are trembling. With clumsy fingers he switches applications, stabbing at his brother’s name several times before the damned machine finally responds and begins to dial. Then he shoves the phone up against his face, digs the fingers of his other hand roughly into the bedspread, and tries (with minimal success) to regulate his breathing before his brother can pick up.

       “You didn’t do this with Molly,” he accuses as soon as he can hear the call connect. He doesn’t quite manage to keep his voice firm (it strays over the line into something too close to desperation for comfort), but he realises there’s little point in pretending. Mycroft will see his call for what it is immediately. The best he can hope for now is to somehow stimulate his brother’s sense of mercy, if such a thing still exists. Damn him.

       “If you’ll remember, Sherlock, I _wrote_ the contract between you and Molly.” Mycroft sounds distinctly unruffled, almost as if he’s examining his fingernails or contemplating his next slice of cake. “I also knew her and trusted her before I ever sent you her way, thanks to several spotless recommendations. Beyond a few megabytes of data and a _very_ brief face-to-face meeting, I do not know this John Watson, nor do I trust him.”

       “You told me his personality fit my lifestyle,” Sherlock argues. “Competent, brave, loyal—all words you used to describe him.”

       “Also all words that can lead to danger.” Mycroft’s voice is firm. “You’ve known each other for less than a week and yet he’s already signing on to Dominate you. How far do you think he’ll go after a month? A year? People grow entitled, Sherlock, some more quickly than others.” He pauses to let his message sink in. “Being able to watch the evolution of your contract will allow me to more accurately judge his character and therefore try to prevent the… history which you are so keen on avoiding. This is really all for your benefit, as you would see if you stopped insisting on viewing everything I do as an attack on your precious autonomy.”

       “No,” Sherlock insists, rising to his feet in panic. Mycroft can’t read his contract; discounting his own, ridiculous, hang-ups, he’s not allowed, _legally_ , to do so. “I don’t want you looking at it. I’ll—I’ll tell them not to let you access it.”

       “Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice practically drips with pity. “Do you really think that would work?”

       No, he hadn’t expected it to. “I’m not a _child_ anymore,” Sherlock snarls, desperate and on his last legs. “I’m not _helpless._ ”

       “No,” Mycroft allows, “you’re not. But you are still my little brother, and my decision is final. Goodbye, brother dear. Best of luck with your new Dominant.”

       “Mycroft!” The line is already dead, however, and for a moment Sherlock stares down at his phone, ears ringing in the sudden silence of the room. His fingers clench, muscles aching distantly as his skin digs into the metal edges of the phone, but the pain hardly registers. His breaths are speeding up, coming quicker, heavier, and his vision narrows until all he can see is the dimming screen, displaying Mycroft’s name. When it finally fades to black, something inside him snaps and with a cry of impotent rage he raises his arm, prepared to hurl the damnable thing against the wall, but he halts himself just before he lets go.

       John. John is downstairs, and would most likely not appreciate having glass strewn across his floor. He would not appreciate having a dent placed in his wall. He would not appreciate the anger. Anger is not attractive.

       _Bugger attractive,_ Sherlock thinks, faintly, but he doesn’t mean it. He lowers his arm and slowly, carefully, sits back down.

       Mycroft is going to be looking at his contract. That’s unfortunate—infuriating, even—but perhaps not so surprising; he’s been an interfering arsehole for most of his life. Telling him that his younger brother had been abused years ago as a result of his turning a blind eye was probably not going to fix that particular problem.

       But that doesn’t make it all _right!_ Sherlock winds his fingers through his hair and pulls, chasing what little stability he can find in the slight, pinprick-sharp pain. Doesn’t he realise that he’s just making it _worse_ , deciding all these things on Sherlock’s behalf without taking no for an answer?

_“I’m clean, Mycroft, I’m clean, I swear it was an accident, let GO of me!”_

_“I’m not going to live with her. If you plan on chaining me up somewhere, you might as well do it here.”_

_“I don’t want to know anything that he doesn’t tell me himself.”_

       …Right. He needs to get himself back under control. Sherlock gets up from the bed again and straightens out his suit, smoothing down wrinkles and fixing his cuffs in quick, jerky motions. Perhaps John will oblige him. It hasn’t been an hour yet—barely even twenty minutes, really—but there’s no way Sherlock will be able to relax like this. A quick dash of pain is all he needs to re-orient himself, and then he’ll be able to figure out how to fix this. John will understand.

* * *

 

The kettle is full, and ready to be boiled. He’s laid out the tea sets (freshly cleaned), along with a selection of tea bags, and placed a soft cushion on the floor beside the armchair. The fire is on at a comfortable temperature, and the lights have been set dimmer than usual so as to make the room feel cosy and safe. All in all, John thinks that he’s done rather a good job.

       The sound of footsteps on the stairs surprises him, however, and he glances down at his watch. It’s only been twenty-two minutes; has Sherlock forgotten something?

       “Settled in already?” he teases, glancing over his shoulder, but as soon as Sherlock steps into the room, the smile drops from John’s face and he turns the rest of the way around to look at Sherlock properly.

       “What’s happ—”

       “I need pain.” The statement is quiet and to the point, and Sherlock levels John with a steady gaze. “Can you do that for me?”

       “If you can tell me what happened for you to need it.” John points at the couch and waits for Sherlock to sit before seating himself on the coffee table. “Did you break a rule?”

       “No,” Sherlock says immediately. “Well, yes, but very briefly. Not important. But this…” His face screws up in frustration, wrinkling the spot right above his nose in a way that John finds, inappropriately, adorable. “This isn’t important, either. I just need—”

       “Stop,” John orders him calmly. It’s a bit gratifying to see Sherlock’s lips press together as he complies, but his hands twisting in his lap in order to keep himself that way, a bit less so. “Now, what’s this about breaking a rule?”

       Sherlock immediately looks chagrined and lowers his gaze to study his lap. “I… pulled my hair,” he admits. It’s not an apology, not really, but John would still prefer for Sherlock to look at him as he says it. He knows, however, that calling attention to Sherlock’s ‘mistake’ will only make him more self-conscious. A gentler approach, then.

       “Why did you do that?” He keeps his voice soft, non-judgmental, and is rewarded when Sherlock glances up at him.

       “I texted my brother, like Molly said to do, and he told me that he intends to look at our contract once we file it. It was implied that I have little to no choice in the matter.”

       _Shit._ John is lost for words. “That’s… that’s illegal. No one can look at contracts, not unless one of us claims abuse. Doesn’t he know that?”

       Sherlock snorts. “Of course he knows it, but it won’t make any difference. The law works for him, not the other way around.”

       John frowns. “Is he… in politics?”

       “You could say that.” Sherlock doesn’t go on, however, and John, stymied, leans back to knead his fingers against his thigh.

       “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he says. “Your brother’s just told you that he plans on breaking the law and invading your privacy to keep an eye on you, and you want me to punish you for it?”

       “Not punish me,” Sherlock contradicts him. “Just a bit of pain to clear my mind. It’ll help me think.”

       “Will it.” Sherlock does look anxious, John will give him that, but in his experience he’s never found that to be a good mindset for subs to be in right before the application of pain. Restless subs need to be soothed, led deep into subspace, and given the chance to centre themselves before being subjected to harsher stimuli. Otherwise they may struggle and get hurt, or become distressed and fearful of their Doms.

       (John knows that his opinion isn’t the only one. He’s met subs who very much enjoy the thrill of mastering their bodies and fighting against the normal impulses that arise while being struck out of ‘space, and he’s met Doms who delight in watching their subs succumb to the high of being hurt, begging for more as their bodies go numb and turn the pain into pleasure. Still, for him, given the choice between gentle and lovingly-administered pain designed to send his sub into the deepest waters of subspace and harsh, overwhelming pain designed to trap and then dissociate, there’s hardly any contest at all.)

       No, he can’t hurt Sherlock. Not yet, anyway.

       “I’ve got a better idea,” he says. Sherlock’s brow twitches and his eyes take on a wary edge, but he says nothing. John reads it as a steady yellow light and moves on.

       “I wanted to teach you something,” he continues. “You need to get used to taking orders from me, and I’d like to try calming you down my way first. I thought maybe we could play a little game. If that doesn’t work, I can think about hurting you. Is that all right?”

       He can see that Sherlock wants to decline; the muscles in his jaw have set and his general posture seems to be more obstinate than open, but perhaps he can see John’s own stubborn refusal reflected back at him and is wondering if the fight is worth it. After a moment of thought, he relents and tightly nods. Good.

       “Good,” John echoes his thoughts, then rises to his feet. “Come with me.”

       He leads Sherlock through into the kitchen and then switches on the burner for the kettle, fiddling with it until he’s satisfied with the flame. Once it’s burning at a good level, he turns back around and gestures at the cups and bags he’s laid out across the table.

       “It’s a bit of a test for you,” John explains. “I’ve just put on some water for tea. Your job is to figure out which set to serve me with, and what sort of tea I’d like to drink. Think you can handle that?”

       Sherlock snorts derisively and flicks his gaze over the two sets. “The white one.”

       John blinks a few times in surprise. That had hardly taken two seconds. “Why?”

       “Because you prefer it,” Sherlock replies. “Most subs would assume that the nicer, decorated set is the one they ought to use to serve their Dom, but yours looks like new: no chips, no scuff marks, you’ve still even got all the pieces. That suggests you only take it out for special occasions or to entertain guests. The plainer one, though—it’s damaged and missing some parts, but those are signs of long-term, consistent use. It’s obviously something you enjoy drinking out of whenever you get the chance for a proper, sit-down tea on your own.” He pauses. “Also, the other set must have been a gift from your mother or Mrs Hudson or _someone_ , because the flower pattern, while certainly attractive, is just a touch too feminine for your tastes.”

       John can’t help it. He laughs, a sudden, loud sound that startles Sherlock and has him staring at John first in confusion, then in something rapidly approaching offense.

       “No, no, no,” John reassures him quickly, “I’m not laughing at you, that was just—that was brilliant, really. It is my favourite set, you got that right, and I did actually get the other one as a present from Mrs Hudson, last Christmas; she was bemoaning the state of my old one.” He huffs another soft laugh through his nose and shakes his head in pleased bewilderment. “I know you think it’s all so easy, figuring this stuff out, but I love watching you explain it. It’s absolutely fascinating.”

       Sherlock’s cheeks colour at the praise and he straightens his posture, clasping his hands together formally behind his back. “Thank you, John.” His voice caresses the name with as much reverence as any _sir_ or _master_ , and suddenly desire curls, flamelike, in John’s abdomen.

       “You’re welcome,” John murmurs back. He shifts a step forward, slow so as not to scare Sherlock off, and is gratified to see Sherlock’s eyes widen in response. He does it again, and again until he’s only about a foot or so outside of Sherlock’s personal space, then stops and just looks up at his sub, confident in his control despite the fact that he has to tilt his chin up for their eyes to meet.

       Sherlock’s deer-in-headlights expression hasn’t quite dissolved yet, but that doesn’t concern him. He has no intention of harming Sherlock, his body language isn’t threatening, and he’s fairly confident that Sherlock will be able to put two-and-two together soon enough. For now he waits, gaze traveling over Sherlock’s face and neck as he decides where he wants to touch first.

       Perhaps his nape. The curls at the base of his neck are particularly springy, and John fancies winding one around a finger as they kiss. A proper kiss this time, too, one where he can feel the softness of Sherlock’s lips beneath his own, can hear his breath shuddering through his nose, can feel his spine shiver as John traces his fingertips down, down, down—

       Except Sherlock’s not relaxing. He hasn’t gone so far as to back away just yet, but his shoulders are tense and hunching just the slightest bit in towards his sides, his lips are pressed together tightly enough to whiten the skin, and John can see where his pulse has begun to jump on the underside of his jaw.

       What’s wrong? John takes a step backwards, startled, and is immediately hit by a pang of shock and hurt when Sherlock lets out an uneven breath of relief at his retreat.

       They both freeze.

       “John.” Sherlock bites out his name in entreaty. “I didn’t mean—that’s not what I—”

       The kettle interrupts him, trilling its whistle through the still air of the kitchen. John goes to attend to it, desperate for something to do, but within seconds of his switching off the heat they’re plunged once more into an awkward silence and he finds himself reflexively clenching and unclenching the fingers of his left hand as Sherlock stews silently behind him.

       “It’s fine,” John says at last without turning around. “Don’t worry about it. Just… pick your tea, okay? Then come meet me in the sitting room.”

       He waits to hear Sherlock’s quiet “yes, John,” then retreats from the kitchen to go and sit in his armchair, fingers laced in front of his mouth.

       Had he been too forward? He’d thought that going slowly and keeping his intentions clear would have been enough to reassure Sherlock, but apparently he’d thought wrong. Sherlock had been staring at him as if he’d expected to be pinned against the wall or bent over the nearest table and found the idea on par with being told to strip and parade down to New Scotland Yard naked.

       Clinking china filters in from the kitchen and John glances over pensively. He hasn’t asked Sherlock to expand upon his abuse—and frankly he doesn’t plan on doing so—but he does find himself wondering just how extensive it must have been to make Sherlock so fearful of something as innocuous as a flirtatious look. Had a seduction from one of his old Doms gone horribly wrong, before? Had they gone too far too quickly and then ignored him when he tried to say no, or use his safeword? The idea turns John’s stomach, but he can’t think of too many other reasons that would have caused that strong of a reaction. Unless—

       “John?”

       He looks back around to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, tea tray held carefully in both hands and head lowered in submission.

       “Where would you like me?” Sherlock’s voice is soft, diminished like a stereotypical submissive, and John’s brows crease together as he beckons Sherlock forward.

       “There’s a cushion next to my chair. But Sherlock—”

       “And the tray?”

       “…On the table. Please.”

       Sherlock obeys quickly and quietly, placing the tray down so that it hardly makes a noise as it connects with the wood. Then he bends his knees and settles himself on the cushion, gaze still fixed firmly on the floor and away from John.

       John can’t take it anymore. “Sherlock—”

       “I’m sorry for not letting you touch me.” Sherlock looks up to meet his eyes determinedly, voice firm as he apologises. “You’re my Dom and it’s your right to take whatever you want from your submissive. I should have let you do as you pleased. It won’t happen again.”

       John is momentarily stunned. _No._ Sherlock cannot possibly believe what he’s saying. That’s idiotic, that’s _dangerous,_ that’s—John has to put a stop to it right _now,_ before Sherlock can go on another minute thinking that that’s an acceptable way to think of this, of _them_.

       “Let me tell you,” he begins slowly, voice deadly-soft, “why that statement is utter _bullshit_.”

       Sherlock reels back at his words, earnest expression fading into something akin to fear as his hands clench over his knees. John regrets scaring him, he really does, but this is important and maybe a little fear will help imprint it better in Sherlock’s mind.

       “Do you happen to remember that piece of paper we signed, just about an hour ago?” he asks. Sherlock’s mouth opens, then closes again as he studies John warily.

       “Answer me, Sherlock.”

       “Yes, yes I do.” Sherlock frowns. “Our contract. Why—”

       “And by any chance do you remember what went _into_ that contract?” John interrupts him. “Anything that we wrote about limits, or consent? Any of that ringing a bell?”

       Sherlock’s shoulders hunch up towards his ears. “John…”

       “We wrote,” John says, raising his voice, “that if you find something upsetting, you’re allowed to tell me to stop. What do you think that was, back there, if not you getting upset?”

       “I overreacted,” Sherlock bites back. “It’s a normal part of relationships, I ought to be used to it by now. Don’t enable me.”

       “Enable you.” John looks away for a moment in order to gather his thoughts, then licks his lips and refocuses his attention on Sherlock’s face. Despite the twin spots of colour that have formed high on his cheeks in response to his anger, most of Sherlock’s skin remains pale and his breaths are shallow and rapid, expanding his chest but not his diaphragm. He’s afraid. Is he angling for punishment, something familiar to hold onto? Or is he challenging John to be different, to surprise him by reacting in a way that he’s never seen before?

       Even if John believed that Sherlock deserved punishment by this point (and he’s toeing the line, even for a newly contracted sub), it’s obvious that Sherlock needs to be taught more than he needs to be hurt. But how to explain this to him in a way that he can understand? That he can accept?

       “What about bruises?” John suggests, finally. Sherlock’s eyes narrow at this, but his expression doesn’t otherwise change. John goes on.

       “That’s a normal part of relationships too, for most people. Especially since we’ve talked about things like flogging and you wanting me to hurt you. You’re going to get bruised at some point, and you’re okay with that.”

       “Of course I am,” Sherlock says. (Condescending: he’s tuning out. _Bad._ Fix it.) “But that’s different—”

       “No, it’s not,” John interrupts. “ _Listen_ to me. You’ve given me implicit permission to bruise you by signing that contract, just like we’ve given _each other_ implicit permission to touch by doing the same thing. But that doesn’t mean that I’m allowed to just walk over there and slap you black and blue any more than it means that I can rip your clothes off in the middle of the kitchen and ravish you whenever I bloody want.” He can feel his face growing warm as he speaks, watching Sherlock’s eyes slowly widen and his mouth fall open in surprise, but he forces himself to keep going. It’s important for Sherlock to hear this, no matter how many times he’ll have to say it (and he can tell that this is going to take some hammering in). “Your opinions and preferences matter, Sherlock, just as much as mine. Where and when and how much I touch you are agreements that we have to come to _together_ , because I want you to trust me. _That’s_ what will make me happy. Not you letting me fondle you whenever I please.”

       Sherlock is quiet for a long moment. “That’s not what people normally say.”

       “And what do people normally say?”

       “Grow up.”

       John closes his eyes. Breathes. Opens them again, then leans forward and presses a gentle kiss into Sherlock’s hair.

       “Well, I’m not going to say that.” He kisses Sherlock again, lingering for a moment this time, then sits back up and settles into Dom voice. “Does it bother you when I do that?”

       Sherlock shakes his head. “No, John.”

       So responsive. So beautiful. _Mine._

       “Good boy. Would you like to get back to the tea, now?”

       Sherlock bites his lip. “It’s likely over-steeped by now, John.”

       John smiles. “That’s fine, I like it strong. Which bag did you choose?”

       “Earl Grey.” Sherlock straightens up on his knees and reaches for the tray, offering it and the cup to John without being asked. “The bags were new; that implies you’ve restocked after finishing a box, which doesn’t usually happen unless someone really likes the tea they’ve been drinking. Besides, two of the other bags were practically dusty. Not varieties you likely enjoy, nor ones I’d enjoy serving you.” He lowers his head slightly, watching John from beneath his lashes as he takes the first sip. “Did I choose correctly?”

       “You chose wonderfully, Sherlock, thank you.” John takes another sip, then sets the cup back in its saucer and replaces it on the tray, which Sherlock sets down once more on the table. “I’d like to ask you a question.”

       “Anything, John.”

       “How are you feeling about pain?” John casts his eye over Sherlock’s face and body, careful not to linger on any one place for too long.  “Do you still think you need some?”

       Sherlock hesitates. His posture doesn’t waver, but his gaze slides off to the side towards the windows, and John has to restrain the urge to touch him again as the dimming afternoon light highlights his face with soft golden undertones. He might be trying to avoid the question, or he could just be thinking. John gives him time.

       “I don’t need… pain exactly,” Sherlock says after a moment. “I’m not looking for the stimulus itself. But I still don’t know what to do about my brother, and I still can’t think.” He glances back towards John, then down at his knees. “I didn’t mean for this to get so complicated. It’s of little consequence for him to see my contributions; he knows most of them, after all. But to spy on yours, and the ones we decide on together—” His face screws up in anger, and John quickly touches a hand to his shoulder to calm him.

       “We have time,” John reminds him. “We decided on a week to make edits, remember, and we don’t have to file right away after that. We’ll think of something.”

       Sherlock sighs heavily and turns to lay his head on John’s forearm. Despite the trusting nature of the act, John feels his heart sink at the resigned look on his face, and he strokes his fingers gently across what part of Sherlock’s muscles he can reach.

       “It won’t help.”

       “Don’t.” John’s caress abruptly turns into a hold, fingertips digging into Sherlock’s back. “You’re not to worry about this, do you understand? At least not for tonight. Tonight, your only job is to serve me. Do you think you can manage that?”

       He expects Sherlock to apologise and acquiesce—he’s dipping in and out of subspace by now, edging more towards in than out—but what he doesn’t expect is for Sherlock to make a soft, high-pitched noise in the back of his throat and rub his cheek against John’s arm placatingly as he does so.

       “Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes. “Sorry. Was ungrateful. Will you punish?”

       A pang goes through John’s stomach and he brings around his left hand to cup Sherlock’s other cheek. When Sherlock opens his eyes to look at him, the anxious expression on his face makes him seem very young, and very small. John swallows.

       “Could make it better,” Sherlock offers weakly, when John doesn’t say anything. “Other Doms have appreciated it. Very much.” He shuffles forwards and brushes his nose against John’s knee, a gentle motion that’s reminiscent of a kitten butting at its owner for attention. “I wouldn’t mind.”

       “No, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s face creases at the rejection, but John stays firm and begins to slide his thumb in what he hopes is a soothing motion along the line of Sherlock’s jaw. The skin is smooth yet slightly stubbled, and John finds himself almost scratching at the space behind the joint to feel the quiet rasp of hair against his nail. Sherlock makes another, almost whimpering, sound and lowers his head.

       “I’m not going to punish you,” John says quietly. “You were feeling scared and angry, and you’re used to having to fix things on your own. You’re going to push me away at first, I know that. But I’m here now, and I want to help, if you’ll let me.”

       “Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice is muffled against his leg, but no less respectful for its lack of volume. “What did you have in mind?”

       “I want to do one more scene with you,” John tells him. He makes sure to keep his voice soft, more on the side of request than order in case Sherlock wants to back out, but what with the way Sherlock’s holding onto him, face still pressed against his knee, John suspects he’s gone too far under to be able to do so. “You’ve gone into space beautifully, Sherlock, and I’m very proud of you, but you’re still having trouble focusing. I want to get you to a place where you’re only paying attention to what’s going on right now, not worrying about what happened five minutes ago or what’s going to happen tomorrow. Do you want to try that with me? If you’ve had enough, I can bring you out of ‘space. I won’t be mad at you.”

       “ _No._ ” Sherlock shakes his head vehemently. “Want to try it. What do I have to do?”

       “I’d like it if you could look at me, first.” John phrases it as a gentle tease, but really, he needs to see how Sherlock is doing. He’s fallen hard and fast this round, and it’s John’s duty to figure out whether this is a normal, if varied, subspace response, or if it’s indicative of a deeper problem. (Like going two months without subbing properly, he amends bitterly to himself.) “Please, Sherlock? Look up?”

       At last Sherlock raises his head and looks at John, silver-blue eyes wide and trusting, face more open than John has ever seen it. He is so beautiful in this moment, the depth of the submission he is offering so utterly humbling, that John’s throat tightens and he wonders, not for the first time, just what he has done to deserve a sub like Sherlock, and whether the Doms that had used him so cruelly before had known just what it was they were throwing away.

       “John?”

       “Sorry.” He clears his throat and takes a deep breath to centre himself. He can hold Sherlock and marvel over him later. Right now, he needs to finish creating the scene.

       “I’m going to tell you to find something for me,” he says. Sherlock slips back into attention at that, eyes narrowing slightly as he tries to focus on John’s words. “You’ll have to decide which room you think it’s most likely to be in, then find it and bring it back here. Do you understand so far?”

       At Sherlock’s nod, he goes on. “You can walk if you like, or you can crawl, but if your knees start hurting, I want you to stand. Finally, I expect you to talk to me the entire time you’re searching.”

       Sherlock’s quiet for a moment, puzzling that one out. At last he cocks his head to the side and blinks up at John in confusion. “Talk to you? About what?”

       “Whatever you’re thinking,” John says simply. “Where you plan on looking, what you’ve found while you’re looking, whether you’ve banged your toe or your knee on something, everything.”

       Sherlock’s mouth twists to the side and he looks away towards the kitchen. “Why?”

       His voice is small, hesitant. Is he that concerned about having John hear what’s going through his mind? If he were out of ‘space, John might understand, but Sherlock’s been under for a good while, now. His thoughts ought to be quieter and calmer, just biologically speaking. Maybe a little uninhibited, but that’s nothing John isn’t used to.

       “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Sherlock,” John soothes him. “It’s all right if none of it makes sense, or if you say something silly. The point is to have you focus on what you’re doing. I won’t get mad or tease you about anything you say, I promise.”

       Sherlock’s mouth shifts around a bit again and he lowers his head to mumble at his knees. “I don’t know.”

       “Can you try it once?” John coaxes him. “Just one time, and if it doesn’t work for you, we’ll stop. I really think it’ll help you.”

       Sherlock fidgets, kneading his fingers against his thighs for a long moment. Finally he glances up at John, nods once, then looks back down, face screwed up as if he’s already regretting his decision. It hurts John a little to see Sherlock so unwilling to trust him, but he tamps down on it        for now. He has to be strong, for Sherlock, while he’s in ‘space. Afterwards, when he’s clearheaded again, they can talk. But not now.

       “Thank you,” he murmurs, and reaches out to stroke along the top of Sherlock’s head. “I promise, I’ll stop if you’re not enjoying it, and we’ll move right to aftercare. I won’t take anything away from you.”

       A soft noise builds in Sherlock’s throat in response to the touch and he presses his head once into John’s hand before pulling away and shifting onto his hands and knees. “Ready, John. First one?”

       “Hm.” John lets his gaze linger thoughtfully on Sherlock for a moment, then casts his eye about the room. “How about my laptop?”

       Sherlock makes a disappointed sound. “Too easy, John. Table.”

       “If you know where it is, then go and get it for me,” John reminds him gently. “And make sure to tell me what you’re thinking.”

       “Thinking it’s too easy.” Sherlock cranes his neck to look behind him at the desk, then turns around and begins to crawl towards it. “Touching… carpet. Rough.” He glances back at John, expression unsure. “Wrong?”

       “Perfectly fine,” John reassures him. “Keep going.”

       Sherlock bites his lip, then resumes his trek towards the desk. When he speaks again, his voice is so quiet that John almost can’t hear it. “…Worried. Don’t want to disappoint John.”

       “You won’t disappoint me, Sherlock, you never have. It’s okay. Just get the laptop. Breathe.”

       “Breathing.” Sherlock reaches the desk, then rises up onto his knees just enough to peer over the edge. The pose looks childish, as if Sherlock doesn’t remember that he has the height to do this sort of thing easily, but John stifles the amused smile that the thought brings on. _Calm. Don’t shake him out of it._

       “Computer,” Sherlock says, more to himself than John. “Delicate.” He reaches out a hand and pulls it closer to the edge, then takes it carefully in both hands and turns around to face John again. “Have it.”

       “Good,” John praises him. “Now bring it back here. Keep talking.”

       “Good,” Sherlock repeats, and a small smile forms on his face. “John thinks I’m good. Have to be good for John.” His gait is a little bit awkward, shuffling along as he is on his knees, but he holds the computer firmly and John isn’t worried that he’ll let it fall. His chest feels full and warm, and he can no longer hold back the grin that’s trying to take over his face. Sherlock appreciates his praise; it makes him smile, makes him want to serve John. He feels _needed_ , and the flood of affection in his chest makes it difficult to breathe for a moment. God, how he’s missed this.

       “Here.” Sherlock places the computer carefully at John’s feet, then looks up to meet his gaze, expression hopeful. “Computer. Is John happy?”

       “Very happy,” John tells him, “and very proud. But what I want to know is: are _you_ happy? Did this do anything for you, or were you just humouring me?”

       Sherlock shakes his head. “No. Did it for John, but… good. Please.” He leans forward and rests his cheek on John’s knee. “Felt good. Another. Please.”

       “God, you perfect thing,” John murmurs. “Okay. Go and find the biscuits, now. Jammie Dodgers.”

       A wide smile spreads across Sherlock’s face and he rubs his cheek across John’s knee several times. “Yes, John. Biscuits: kitchen!” Suddenly animated, he flings himself away from John and towards the kitchen, head turning in all directions as he searches out the cabinets. John allows himself a quiet giggle this time, then gets up to follow Sherlock to the doorway.

       He has to admit, it is a bit strange watching Sherlock crawl about on the floor like this in his suit jacket and trousers, but his enthusiasm for the game now that he’s gotten a taste for it is nothing short of endearing. John makes a mental note to ask Sherlock to change into something a bit more casual from now on, however; he doubts that Sherlock will appreciate it if John lets him tear a hole in his expensive-looking clothes.

       A sharp grunt startles him from his thoughts and he looks up to see Sherlock pulling himself up onto the counter from the floor. “What are you doing?”

       Sherlock lets go abruptly and falls back to the linoleum, looking up at John like a child that’s just been caught being naughty. “Looking for biscuits. Did I do it wrong?”

       John purses his lips, feeling a bit lost. “Not… wrong, exactly, but—I said you could stand up if you wanted. That’d be a bit easier, wouldn’t it?”

       Sherlock’s mouth opens, shuts. Head cocked, he looks between John and the counter a few times, then down at his legs. “I… can’t.”

       Immediately, John’s down on the floor as well, hands probing cautiously at Sherlock’s muscles. “Can’t? Do they feel pinched in any way? Asleep?”

       “No, no, fine,” Sherlock insists, drawing his legs back and away from John. “They _can_ , I just… can’t. Like this. Not supposed to.” His brows crease in frustration. “Can’t explain. Is climbing bad? Can’t find biscuits otherwise.”

       John hesitates. If he’s being completely truthful, he isn’t quite sure if he shouldn’t just call an end to the scene right now. Sherlock doesn’t seem to be in any physical distress, but saying that he can’t _walk_ —it’s concerning, and really, John would feel much better if he could just get Sherlock to lie down on the couch and submit to a good leg massage for a few minutes. But with the way Sherlock’s starting to glare at him in impatience, he doubts that suggestion would go over well.

       “…Okay,” he says at last. “You can climb, but you be _very_ careful, do you understand? And if you think you’re about to fall, you’re _going_ to use your legs. I don’t want you getting hurt.” The order feels strange as it leaves his mouth, almost as if he’s addressing a child instead of a grown man, subspace notwithstanding. The effect is only highlighted when Sherlock tosses his head in pleased self-satisfaction and proceeds to hoist himself up onto the counter once more, feet dangling off the edge as if he’s forgotten they exist. John lets him go, then stands back up to return to his spot in the doorway and think.

       What could be going on? John’s seen many different manifestations of subspace over the years, but Sherlock’s specific blend is almost disconcerting: he’s omitting pronouns, using childish grammar, refusing to walk—on their own, it’s nothing particularly alarming, but mixed with Sherlock’s odd little facial touches and strange body language, John feels more than a little thrown.

       Briefly, he wonders if he’d misjudged Sherlock, before—is he actually a little, and had just been too embarrassed to correct John when he’d assumed? But if that were the case, Sherlock ought to be seeking out cuddles, toys and affection, not delighting in scampering about the flat on his hands and knees. All told, John’s rather at a loss, and that is unacceptable; it’s his job to provide for Sherlock, and there’s no way he can do that if he doesn’t know what Sherlock needs. It’s almost enough to make him angry, knowing that Sherlock has deliberately hidden something from him, but he also knows to stop that train of thought before it gets too far.

       Sherlock is obviously committed to their relationship, young as it is; he’s the one who sought John out, pushed their contract, and just now admitted how deeply he cares about John’s opinion of him. He’s not hiding things to spite John or act out. He is, however, deeply ashamed of being a submissive, and an abuse victim. Secrets are probably going to be commonplace for a while, as much as John would like otherwise.

       “John? Found them!”

       John glances up to see Sherlock, balanced precariously on his knees on the counter, holding the packet of biscuits aloft with a pleased grin.

       “So easy, John. Almost clever—climbing on counter was hard—but biscuits are only put in so many places, and I _found them_ , and now John is proud, and—” Sherlock trails off, slumping to sit back down on his heels with a hesitant expression on his face. “Is John upset?”

       John frowns. “No. Why would I be?”

       “Arms crossed. Looking down.” Sherlock shrugs helplessly. “Didn’t find them fast enough?”

       Lovely, lovely sub. John just wants to take him into his arms and stroke his hair until he stops constantly worrying that he’s done something wrong, but after his misstep earlier, he isn’t sure if the gesture would be welcomed.

       “You did fine, Sherlock,” he says instead, voice as soothing and gentle as he can make it. “You’ve really taken to the game, and I’m happy to see that. I just got a bit distracted. I’m sorry.”

       Sherlock fidgets with the packaging in his lap. “Does John want to stop playing?”

       “No, not if you don’t.” John waits patiently for a response, but when none seems to be forthcoming, he flavours his next words with the hint of an order. “Sherlock, please look at me.” Sherlock finally does, albeit reluctantly, and John flashes him a smile.

       “Look, how about we take a break?” he suggests. “We’ll have some biscuits, and then if we feel like it after, we can keep playing. I bet I can think up some things that aren’t so easy for you to find next time.”

       Sherlock scrunches up his nose in thought, then glances at John out of the corner of his eye and shrugs. “Doubt it.”

       There’s a beat of silence while John processes that, and then an incredulous grin slowly breaks out across his face. “Sherlock Holmes, did you just _tease_ me?”

       Sherlock’s face colours and he quickly looks away again, busying himself with the packaging once more. “No.” He pauses. “…Maybe. Not good?”

       John looks at him. This isn’t going to be easy, he knows. Sherlock’s trust issues obviously run deep, and it’s going to take a lot more than a handful of scenes in a single afternoon to build his confidence and comfort with John. They’re probably talking _weeks,_ if not months. Certainly not days.

       It’s a daunting task. Most Doms would have probably deemed Sherlock to be too much work by this point, an unpredictable, unconventional, and irreverent sub that’s more trouble than he’s worth to tame.

       …Good thing John’s not most Doms, nor is taming Sherlock his goal.

       “Not good?” he asks gently. “Sherlock, if I’m being completely honest here, I actually want you to do that _more._ ”

       Sherlock’s head shoots up at his words, lips parted in surprise. His throat works as if he’s trying to speak, but no sounds come out save several unsteady breaths, and at last John takes pity on him and moves forward until he’s close enough to lay a gentle hand on his knee.

       “I don’t care how your old Doms wanted you to act,” John tells him quietly. “I don’t care what sort of rules they had about propriety, or manners, or even about respect. That, what you did there? That told me that you felt comfortable with me, enough to crack a joke even though you weren’t sure how I’d react. That’s a good thing, Sherlock. A very, _very_ good thing.”

       Sherlock’s fingers twitch. After a moment of very quiet, very visible contemplation, he slowly lifts his hand and places it gingerly on top of John’s, stroking his thumb along the line of John’s index finger. John does not move.

       “…Special,” Sherlock murmurs at last, voice so quiet that it is almost inaudible. “John is very… very special.”

       John can no longer help himself. He takes his other arm and wraps it around Sherlock’s back in a half-formed hug, then leans over to press a kiss as firmly as he dares against Sherlock’s temple. When Sherlock does not flinch away from him, but rather shudders and tilts his head back to bare his neck in submission, it’s as if a vice has suddenly broken from around John’s lungs and he has to take several deep breaths before he is able to speak again.

       “You are, too, Sherlock,” he whispers. “You are, too.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I offer my heartfelt apologies for taking so long to get this chapter out. It's been a combination of school, writer's block, and a personal lack of confidence in the story that made me uncertain about where to go with it. I also had to rewrite the flashback scene, which took up several days' worth of time, as the first draft had it getting much too dramatic.
> 
> I do want to keep working on this story, as I still have lots of ideas for scenes and events (we haven't even gotten into any of the scenes I pre-planned back when it all started!), but the matter of organizing them and trying to take it off of this terribly slow burn trek it's on is a bit of a daunting task. I'll try, over the coming weeks, to plan out the order of things and see if I can streamline it at all. I thank you all for your patience in waiting for this chapter, and I hope that it was at least a little bit worth the wait.

       The world is warm.

       That is the first thing that Sherlock notices upon drifting awake, thoughts mired pleasantly in soft, woven cotton. He’s surrounded by soothing warmth, loose-limbed and sated, and as he presses his face further into the pillow he stretches out his legs to their utmost length, revelling in the early-morning burn.

       He feels exquisite. There is no leftover tension in his shoulders, nor headache brewing behind his eyebrows, nor anxiety preying at the back of his mind—there is simply peace and white noise, flowing over him like the gentle tones of a violin.

       “John…” He nuzzles closer into the pillow, sighing as he exhales. John has done this to him. John has put him under so wonderfully, so skilfully, that he can still feel the waves of subspace lapping at his mind, even now. Even after he’s come home, curled up snug in his bed, safe with Molly just down the hall—

       He pauses.

       This isn’t his bed.

       Tentatively, he stretches out once more, toes straining, but his feet fail to drape over the edge of the mattress. Not his pet bed, then. A proper sized one.

       So where—?

       Sherlock’s eyes snap open, muscles tensing as he rapidly scans the room. Familiar bag lying on the floor; laptop peeking out from beneath half of a crisp white shirt; suit from yesterday folded and placed on top of the (slightly dusty) dresser; no other possessions besides his own present. No John. Conclusion: John’s guest bedroom. He’s safe.

       Relief swamps him at the realisation, strong enough to make him feel sick, and he hauls himself to a sitting position with a groan. They haven’t had sex. There’s no pain, no soreness, and no lingering slick dampening his pants. John hasn’t touched him. He’s fine.

       Reassuring as that is, however, he still doesn’t understand. The words _bed_ and _toys_ echo faintly throughout his mind palace, tinged with John’s voice and prompting him every few seconds with hazy images and sensations. Determined, Sherlock closes his eyes, leans against the headboard, and wades in.

*

       “You’re getting tired,” John murmurs into his ear, some time later. His voice is soft and soothing, yet still manages to rouse Sherlock out of his half-slumber. “Would you like to go to bed?”

       Not particularly. He’s comfortable where he is, listening to telly with John and having his hair pet. Sherlock murmurs some nonsense syllables in reply and nuzzles in closer to John’s hip.

       “Sherlock.”

       “Mmmm,” Sherlock hedges. It’s not that he objects to the concept in principle, not really, but ‘going to bed’ means that he’ll have to get up, make his way upstairs, change into his pyjamas, crawl under the covers, and _then_ finally try to get to sleep, which, after all the fussing and moving about, will take twice as long as it normally would because he’s gotten up to get ready for it in the first place. Not altogether worth it, especially considering that he’s about five minutes from sleep right now. Maybe he can convince John to just let them stay here. “Like sitting with John.”

       “I like sitting with you, too,” John says, sounding amused, “but I don’t think you want to fall asleep on me. Come on, up you get.” He moves to shift out from underneath Sherlock, then stops. “Can you walk yet? I don’t know if I can carry you.”

       Sherlock ponders that for a moment. He can still _feel_ his feet, obviously, and move his toes; he’s been reflexively curling and uncurling them for some time now. But walking on them? Tentatively, he presses down on the couch with the ball of his foot, then immediately yanks it back with a grimace. “No.” He doesn’t _want_ to walk, either, not like a human, so unsteady on his feet and with so much weight to carry; better to scamper about on his hands and knees, so mobile and with so little distance to fall if he trips, always looking up at John like the good little sub that he is.

_Good kitten._

       He’s startled from his thoughts, however, as John’s hands come up to grab him beneath the arms and lift. There’s a flash of adrenaline— _in the air, no control, can’t get down_ —and Sherlock struggles, trying to twist out of John’s grip. “No, John, no!”

       John, wonderful John, releases him at once without protest, but as soon as his back hits the sofa once more, Sherlock pulls away to curl into himself, cheeks hot with shame. How dare he say no to his Dom that way? How dare he _shout_? He’s making this very difficult on John, he knows, refusing to walk or to let himself be carried. John will not tolerate it. _Grow up._

       “How d’you want to handle it, then?” John asks him, but his voice isn’t angry, or even impatient as Sherlock had feared—rather, he sounds curious, and a little bit concerned. “Because I’d really like to get you to bed, now, but if you don’t want to walk or have me carry you there, I’m not sure what else I can do.”

       Sherlock sighs and lifts his head from his knees to look at John upside-down. “Can walk, John. It’s fine.”

       John raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to fall.”

       “Fine,” Sherlock repeats. He rolls over onto his front and hoists himself up onto his hands and knees, even though his muscles still feel a bit like treacle and it takes much more concentration than he’d like to keep himself from falling. John has been so kind. He deserves Sherlock’s obedience in this. “Where does John want to go?”

       “I… was thinking the bathroom, first,” John replies. “You ought to brush your teeth. Did you want to wash?”

       A tiny fissure of fear sparks its way down Sherlock’s back and his muscles clench in response. (Wash? _Sex,_ his mind supplies helpfully, but that can’t be right. They’ve just been doing aftercare; that means that they’re done for the night, that John isn’t going to do anything else to him—)

       (Relax, Sebastian sneers. Stupid submissive, he’s just changed his mind. Doms can do that. It’s fine. Obey, and you won’t get hurt.)

       _No_. He doesn’t want to, he won’t. “Didthismorning,” Sherlock protests, the words bleeding together in their haste to get out of his mouth. “Fine ‘til tomorrow.” _Deflect._ “Toothbrush?”

       “…Probably in your things upstairs,” John tells him, brows furrowed. “Is it okay if I go and get it?”

       Sherlock nods, feeling lost, and John gives him a soft peck on the forehead before rising from the couch. He makes his way across the room and up the stairs smoothly, with no trace of a limp, and Sherlock lets that pacify him as he slides off the cushions to kneel between the sofa and the coffee table. He needs to relax. This is good for John; being with Sherlock makes John’s limp go away. He can do this. He has to. It’s fine. It’s all fine.

       “Got it,” John announces, descending the stairs once more. “Also grabbed you some pyjamas so you can stop tearing up your nice trousers. Ready to go?”

       Sherlock hesitates at the mention of clothes, shifting his weight anxiously from shin to shin. He doesn’t understand—does John mean to change him? When? They’re going to bed; surely neither of them will be needing clothes for that. Perhaps they’re for afterwards—John may not like sleeping naked. Sherlock certainly doesn’t. Gets too cold that way.

       “Sherlock?”

       Been thinking for too long. Need to obey—does John still want him to relay his thoughts? That game’s been over for a while, now, but since John’s changed his mind about this, he might have decided to bring back those rules as well. But what to say? He can’t question John, not about this, that would disappoint him, it—

       “Sherlock.” John kneels before him, fingers gently tapping beneath his chin to get him to raise his head. “Don’t get lost on me, all right? We’re just going to the bathroom. Come down the hall with me. That’s all you need to do.”

       “All I need to do,” Sherlock repeats. The words ground him, give him the foundation he desperately needs to cling to. _Don’t think about later. Just focus on now._ “Bathroom.”

       “Exactly.” John smiles at him, then straightens back up. Time to go.

       Sherlock takes a deep breath. Which knee to do first? He tries the right, contracting his thigh muscle, but it doesn’t move. All right—he tries again, shifting to support himself on his hands as he extends his leg out behind him. That works. Next he attempts to bring it forward, but as soon as his toes touch the floor, his face screws up in displeasure and a tight noise of frustration escapes his throat. Why is this so difficult? He’s known how to walk since he was a year old. What must John think of him?

       “Here.”

       He looks up. John is standing right beside him, back slightly bent, holding out one hand while he cradles Sherlock’s possessions in the other. “Let me help.”

       Sherlock studies him silently for a minute, then slowly lifts one hand from the floor and curls it tentatively around John’s. He waits, expecting to be hauled to his feet, but John doesn’t move.

       “D’you want to try walking on your knees first?” John suggests. “Stages, and all that. You won’t fall—I’ve got you—but you haven’t really come out of ‘space yet and I don’t want to rush it.”

       Sherlock blinks. Lowers his knee back to the floor and picks up his other hand, joining it to the first around John’s. “…Got me?”

       “Got you,” John promises, and tightens his fingers around Sherlock’s. They are warm and strong, and Sherlock tries not to imagine what they would feel like inside of him, opening him up (exposing him). “Are you ready to try now?”

       It’s not so difficult at first, walking on his knees. Just like crawling, really, except without the extra support of his hands while one of his knees is in the air. There are some false starts, and some awkward moments in which Sherlock grabs at John’s arm and almost topples them both, but somehow they manage to find a rhythm and soon Sherlock’s knees are practically gliding across the wood as they make their way across the living room and through the doors into the kitchen.

       “That’s my clever boy,” John praises him as they pass the kitchen table. “You sure your knees aren’t getting sore?”

       They are, a bit, but Sherlock doesn’t mind. He’ll be off of them soon enough, after all. _Don’t think about it. Bathroom. Focus._

       “Fine, John,” he replies. “Could probably try walking soon, if John would like.”

       John chuckles softly and brushes his thumb along the smooth skin of Sherlock’s palm. “Don’t worry about it,” he orders gently. “Take all the time you need.” He pauses, then, lips pursed in thought, then continues haltingly as if he’s a bit uncertain about what he’s going to say next. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want a wash? I could draw up a bath if you don’t think you can stand. It’d be relaxing, and I could try to rummage up some toys if you’d like.”

       Sherlock freezes. “Toys?” he asks, hesitantly. John hadn’t mentioned those before, either in the contract or in passing, and he’d been looking forward to doing without them altogether. ( _Hard silicone, trapped inside him, clenching, hurting, John’s eyes on him, waiting for him to beg for the real thing just to get this awful facsimile out of him—_ )

       “Well, yeah.” For some reason John looks embarrassed. “I probably don’t have much—I didn’t really keep anything from before the army—but I could try to round up something for you to play with in the bath if you wanted. Plastic cups, that sort of thing. If you… needed that kind of… entertainment.”

       Oh. _Oh._ Sherlock’s knees go weak and for a moment he’s absurdly relieved that he’s not standing so that they can’t give out on him. John doesn’t mean sex, but _actual toys._ Why on earth would he think Sherlock would want…? No, he’s not going to ask. Not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Be grateful.

       “No, John,” he says breathlessly. “Don’t need toys, thank you. Not taking a bath. Just teeth. Please.”

       John shrugs, looking content if a little puzzled. “All right,” he says. “Your choice.”

       They’ve reached the bathroom door by this point. Sherlock pauses and glances up at John, trying to gauge what he plans on doing next. _His choice_ or not, John’s still in charge, and snatching his clothes away to barricade himself in the bathroom unmolested would probably not be appreciated.

       “D’you need my help to reach the taps?” John asks. “Or do you think you can try standing up now?”

       No. He doesn’t want John coming into the bathroom with him, no matter what he means by toys. Being naked like that, vulnerable, _seen_ —Sherlock shakes his head and reaches for the doorframe, searching out a handhold.

       “Can do it alone,” he assures John. He ends up settling on the doorknob as a leverage point and wraps his hands around it determinedly, preparing to bring up one of his knees.

       “You sure?” John asks him. Sherlock wrinkles his nose.

       “ _Yes,_ ” he insists. “Know— _I_ know how to stand up. I can.”

       Something about his use of pronouns must tip John off, as he holds up his free hand placatingly and backs up a step.

       “Fine, fine,” he says. “Here, I’ll put this stuff on the counter and then let you get to it. I’ll be right in the kitchen if you need me.”

       He steps around Sherlock carefully, giving him a wide berth as he enters the bathroom to set down the bundle of pyjamas and toothbrush, then does so again as he exits. Sherlock quietly watches him go, head tilted, until he turns the corner into the body of the kitchen and then the sink begins to hiss, covering up any potential noises Sherlock could be making from the bathroom.

       John’s… giving him privacy.

       Sherlock ponders that as he hauls himself upright and stumbles towards the sink on unsteady legs. Not even Irene would have done that; while she might have allowed him to close the door in order to change his clothes, she would have insisted on remaining right outside, as a reminder of his subordinate status. The fact that John is now not only willing to move himself all the way down the hallway from his sub, but also explicitly _not_ listen in to what he’s doing, makes Sherlock’s knees feel a bit weak in ways that have nothing to do with the lingering subspace.

       _Focus._ With trembling hands he picks up his toothbrush and wets it, then proceeds to brush his teeth with small, jerky movements that sometimes require him to bring up his left hand to control. The shaking is concerning—he can’t remember ever reacting this strongly to subspace before—but he does his best to ignore it. It’s probably just a consequence of his having fallen so hard after going without for so long. He’s fine.

       Teeth done, he splashes some cold water on his face and then turns himself to the task of getting dressed. Coordinating his hands to undo his many buttons takes up most of his concentration, and he’s only just managed to get both his jacket and shirt off when there’s a knock at the door.

       “Sherlock?” John calls. “How’s it coming?”

       “Not—not done yet.” Sherlock moves to stand directly in front of the door, just in case John tries to open it without asking. “I’ve just got my shirt off.”

       “Do you need any help?”

       “No.” That came out sharper than intended. “No, John, thank you. I’m fine. Just—tired.”

       “I can imagine.” John sounds as if he’s smiling. “Take your time. I’ll walk you upstairs when you’re done.”

       So they won’t be sleeping together in either sense of the word. That’s… reassuring, if unexpected. Sherlock murmurs a quiet thank you and then picks up his pyjama t-shirt. It goes on easily enough, but getting the bottoms on is a little more of a struggle, given that his sense of balance is utterly shot. He manages it eventually, however, and opens the door at last to a patiently smiling John.

       “Ready?” John asks, and at Sherlock’s nod, he holds out an arm. “Easy does it. There’s no rush.”

       The going is slow, Sherlock defaulting to little more than a shuffle as they make their way down the hall, but at least he manages not to stumble or lean on John more than is strictly necessary. By the time they’ve reached the stairs, he can almost pick up his feet without worrying that he’s going to topple over. Of course, then there are the stairs themselves to worry about.

       “D’you want to crawl up?” John finally asks after Sherlock’s spent what feels like several minutes silently appraising the climb. “If you don’t think you can do it on your feet—”

       “No,” Sherlock snaps irritably. He’s come this far walking; he’s not going to regress now. “I’m fine, John, I can do it.”

       “If you say so.” Belatedly, Sherlock realises that perhaps snapping at one’s Dom is not the wisest course of action, especially whilst in the middle of aftercare, but John seems to be more good-naturedly humouring him than upset. Sherlock huffs and draws himself up, taking his hands off of John’s arm. If John’s going to make fun of him, then Sherlock’s just going to bloody well climb these stairs himself.

       It’s difficult. Every time he lifts his foot off of a stair it’s like his world is tilting and he has to cling to the banister, digging his nails in until he’s sure that he won’t fall over and crack his skull on the floorboards. As a result, it turns out to be terribly slow going, and Sherlock’s about to open his mouth and apologise to John for taking up so much of his time when he suddenly hears John murmur a quiet “well done,” from behind his shoulder. He looks down.

       They’ve made it to the top. Despite the fatigue, a small smile works its way across Sherlock’s lips and he turns his head to look at John.

       “I did it,” he says, rather stupidly. Of course he’s done it, John can see that he’s done it. Why bother saying anything at all? But John doesn’t laugh at him; instead his smile broadens until it takes up most of his face and he raises a hand to brush his knuckles affectionately against the back of Sherlock’s neck.

       “You did,” John affirms. “And quite well, too. Now let’s get you into bed, come on.”

       Oh, John’s pleased with him. The notion is almost enough to send Sherlock back down into subspace, and he lets the static crescendo in his mind as John steers him into the bedroom and down onto the mattress.

       “There,” John says as Sherlock settles himself warmly beneath the covers. “Comfortable?”

       Sherlock nods, letting his eyes slide closed. _Tired._ “Enjoyed today.”

       “So did I.” There’s a pause, and then the bed sags a bit as John perches carefully on the edge. “I’m really proud of you, Sherlock. You were very brave today, and you behaved so well for me. Do you think you did well?”

       Sherlock shrugs his shoulder loosely. “More or less. Could have done better.”

       John huffs a breathless laugh. “Well, I think you did great. Great first day.” He lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and begins to rub in soothing circles. “You ready for one last order?”

       “Mm.” Sherlock pushes his head into the pillow, baring his throat for John. “What is it?”

       “I want you to go to sleep,” John tells him. “You’re going to sleep yourself out, all right? And then when you wake up tomorrow morning, you’re going to feel relaxed and refreshed and just like yourself again.”

       “That’s more than one thing,” Sherlock objects muzzily.

       “Shush, you.” But John’s voice is affectionate, and then there’s a hand stroking at Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock takes the opportunity to turn his head and brush his nose against the ball of John’s thumb, darting his tongue out to lap tiredly at the flesh. John’s breath catches.

       “Go to sleep, Sherlock,” he murmurs. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

*

       God, what had he been _thinking?_ Sherlock buries his face in his hands, fingertips digging into his skull as he growls in frustration. How could he have let himself lose so much control? He barely has any data on John; what if he’d _tried_ something? The toy misunderstanding was dangerous enough. If John had tried to persuade him to sleep downstairs… Sherlock doesn’t know which outcome would have been worse: John succeeding in coaxing him into bed, or himself having another breakdown like the one in the kitchen and finally tipping John off to the fact that Sherlock doesn’t actually want to put out after all.

       Oh, what a mess. Sherlock exhales sharply and sets about looking for his phone. He needs to text Molly; he’s coming home _today_ , no matter what John thinks about it. He’ll likely be disappointed—he thinks everything’s going fine, after all—but Sherlock needs time to regroup and he can’t do that with the threat of subspace looming over him. Besides, Molly might have some suggestions for what to do about Mycroft. Overall, it’s an excellent plan. Now where is his phone?

       His question is answered a moment later as a sharp vibrating noise sounds from the top of the dresser. Of course. The idea of standing up is abhorrent, but Sherlock forces his limbs into action and throws off the covers, stomping over to the dresser so he can root through his pockets for the phone.

       _Morning, sleepyhead,_ the text reads once he’s found the device and swiped right on the screen. _Come downstairs when you get this, I’ve made breakfast._

       Sherlock’s nose twitches. Breakfast? But that’s not John’s— _he’s_ the one who ought to have—he’d even offered to John, yesterday! Why hadn’t John accepted?

       Irritated, he casts about for something with pockets to wear so that he can go downstairs. After last night, he’s certainly not going to talk to John in anything as vulnerable as _pyjamas._ His suit from yesterday is dusty, however, from his _romping_ , and Sherlock grits his teeth as he pulls the trousers on anyway. The shirt will just have to do on its own.

* * *

 

       “What’s all this, then?”

       John turns from his spot by the stove to face him, startled at first by Sherlock’s sudden appearance, and then by his state of dress. (He himself is still in a robe, despite the fact that it’s almost gone ten in the morning. Odd, for a Monday; has he taken off work to coddle Sherlock? The idea rankles.) “Breakfast. What’s the matter?”

       “That’s my job,” Sherlock says, a bit heatedly. He doesn’t quite know why he cares so much—it’s not like he desperately wants John to tell him to make breakfast, after all—but there’s a prickling belligerence crawling up his spine in dire need of an outlet, and John’s the closest, and therefore easiest, target. “I told you yesterday that I was perfectly capable of doing it if you wanted—”

       “Sherlock.” When John speaks, his voice is like steel. “Think _very_ carefully about what you’re going to say. Is this really how you want to start today off?”

       It’s a warning. Sherlock clamps his mouth shut and studies John from top to bottom: his hair is mussed, even though he’s been out of bed for a while, which means he hasn’t showered or studied himself particularly hard in the mirror, and the bags under his eyes, while not largely pronounced, are more visible than they were yesterday. Up late thinking, perhaps, which could account for the late rising and the desire to distract himself by making breakfast. In any case, Sherlock needs to tread carefully.

       “No, John. I’m… sorry. Forgive me.” He lowers his head as he says it, making sure to keep his eyes on John’s face, and after a moment of silence John nods once in acceptance and then turns back to the food.

       “Come on and eat, then,” he says. “It hasn’t been done long.”

       “Not hungry,” Sherlock replies automatically. He grimaces as soon as the words leave his mouth—is he _really_ provoking John again so quickly?—but John seems to take it in stride and simply shrugs as he lays two plates out on the kitchen table.

       “Eat half, then,” he says. “You won’t get sick from eating a few bites of eggs.”

       “How do you know?” The jab is deliberate this time, and Sherlock is being an idiot, he knows, but part of him is dying to know if John will snap at his insolence and take the opportunity to put him in his place. Most Doms do, after all. That’s the routine. But John—

       “Because I’m a doctor. Now eat.” The words are stern but John’s face is kind and Sherlock, hesitant but appeased for now, pulls out one of the chairs and sits down.

       “Thank you.” John turns his back on him for a moment to reach into the fridge and collect the milk. “How d’you take your tea in the morning?”

       John… John’s making him tea?

       “…Black. Sugar,” Sherlock manages. “John—”

       “You can do it yourself, I know,” John says as he pours out the tea. “You ought to be doing it for me, it’s not proper for a Dom to be serving a sub, all that sort of thing. Am I right?”

       Sherlock’s nose twitches but he nods.

       “Don’t worry about it,” John orders him. “Think of it as a reward for your behaviour last night. You responded so well to me, you know.” He sets Sherlock’s teacup in front of him and then settles in his own seat, picking up knife and fork in preparation to eat. “I even think you decided to push some of your limits last night, which was very brave of you. I’m proud.”

       Sherlock winces and prods at the eggs on his plate. “John… you have to know, I—about my behaviour last night.” He hesitates. “I don’t typically act that way, while I’m under. It was an anomaly.”

       “Was it.” John doesn’t sound particularly convinced, but he also doesn’t sound like he thinks Sherlock is lying, either, so Sherlock continues.

       “I’m sorry if I… disappointed you,” he goes on. “I know you must have had plans for our first night together, and I must have botched them up a bit, falling as incoherent as I did. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

       “It wasn’t a problem,” John says, frowning. “I just told you, I’m very proud of how you did. I’m a bit concerned that you didn’t think you could tell me what sort of headspace you’d get into—”

       “But that’s just it,” Sherlock protests. His heart is pounding, as much from the fact that he’s just interrupted his Dom as in anticipation of the offense he’s about to commit. “I couldn’t have told you, because I wasn’t expecting to fall that far. You know that it’s been some eight weeks since I’ve submitted to anyone; my body needed a fix, and badly. You provided, and I… stocked up, so to speak.”

       John is silent as he processes this information. “Has that happened before, then?”

       “A few times.” _Liar._ Sherlock swallows. “It wasn’t my intention to confuse you, John. I couldn’t control it. Everything just seemed like the right thing to do, at the time. But you needn’t worry; I doubt it’ll happen again once we start engaging in regular scenes.”

       He expects the statement to relieve John; having a submissive that’s a pet or a little is a tremendous commitment of time and energy, after all, and offers little in the way of gratification to the Dom. Besides, there was nothing in their preliminary contract to suggest that John was interested in either of those roles; he’d mentioned flogging and bondage as potential activities, for god’s sake, not bath time and walkies. But if anything John seems a bit…deflated by the pronouncement.

       “You know, you don’t have to hide anything from me,” he says, using a gentle tone that makes Sherlock’s fingers clench around the cold metal of his fork. “This is supposed to be a safe space for you. If you wanted to—I dunno—experiment with something—”

       “It’s a very kind gesture,” Sherlock interrupts, tone just barely this side of polite, “but no, thank you. I’m not a little, John, I don’t need to _experiment_ with anything. Oh, don’t bother looking surprised, I knew what you meant when you asked about toys in the bath. But it’s all coddling, this safe space rubbish, and you needn’t bother.”

       “What are you, then?” John asks. He sets down his utensils and pushes away from the table, leaning back in his chair as he crosses his arms over his chest. “You say you’re not a little, and I believe you. So what are you?”

       Adrenaline bleeds through Sherlock’s stomach. It’s a direct question; not necessarily damning in itself—he’s lied, straight-faced, to those before—but it means that John’s giving him a choice. He’s acknowledging the possibility that Sherlock has lied to him already, and is giving Sherlock the chance to be forgiven for it. If he lies to John again and then John finds out later…

       But John won’t find out. Sherlock can control himself; he knows what to look out for now, and he knows John’s propensity to induce subspace in him. If he simply pays attention and plays his role carefully, he can satisfy his biology and appease John at the same time.

       “I’m nothing, John,” he says quietly. “Only your sub, who would very much like to reiterate that last night was an accident and politely request that we move forward without talking about it.”

       John leans back even further in his chair and tilts his head, fixing Sherlock with a piercing stare. Before he can open his mouth to respond, however, his phone, which has been sitting on the counter by the sink for the last ten minutes, lets out a shrill chirp and John twists to look at it, posture suddenly tense.

       “The hospital,” Sherlock says. John throws him a quick glance and then stands to stride over to the counter.

       “I’m on call,” he murmurs as he reads whatever message the staff have sent him. “There’s been an emergency.” He glances up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “You fancy a trip to Bart’s?”

       Bart’s. Molly’s working today; he could go and find her while John’s tending to whatever emergency’s come up and talk to her about Mycroft and his latest scheme. That eliminates the awkward conversation of telling John why he wants to go home again so soon, if nothing else. Sherlock nods and rises from his own seat.

       “I’ll go get dressed.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm ecstatic and so relieved that inspiration suddenly came down from the sky for this chapter. I was stuck at around 1-2k words for the longest time and had no idea of where to go, and then suddenly words appeared and the second half of this chapter was born. It's not completely perfect in my eyes, but I'm relatively happy with it, and I wanted to give you guys something after being so patient with me and my fickle writer's block. (Also it's my birthday tomorrow, so I wanted to get this up by then ;) )
> 
> We're finally moving ahead in the plot a little bit, and I'm excited to finally get to write some things I've been planning since the inception of this fic. It'll be such a relief to get them down on paper at last.
> 
> As always, I hope you guys enjoy the chapter, and I hope to see you soon, either in this fic or in Lungs, whichever gets updated first. :)

       They part once inside the hospital, John muttering something about his phone and “don’t get into trouble.” Then he’s gone, attention centred on the mousy-haired nurse with clipboard in hand that’s obviously been waiting for him to arrive, the two of them speaking in hushed tones as John follows her into the depths of the hospital. Sherlock watches after him for a moment, taking the opportunity to appreciate his Dom, calm and confident in his element, then turns and makes off for the morgue.

       He knows Molly’s schedule intimately by this point, so it isn’t difficult for him to find the room where she’s working and let himself in, though he makes sure to tap on the door first so as not to startle her. The strategy only goes so far, however, as her eyes widen in surprise anyway as she turns to see him come in.

       “Sherlock! What are you doing here?” At least her tone isn’t accusatory. She seems genuinely pleased to see him, and so Sherlock pulls out a stool from beneath one of the lab benches and sits. He anticipates being here for a while.

       “John was called in for an emergency,” he tells her. “I elected to come along.”

       “Ah.” Molly pauses, clearly unsure as to whether she ought to smile or not. “Everything all right at home?”

       “Well enough.” Sherlock taps his fingers idly against the worktop. Molly won’t stop staring at him, and it makes his back prickle. “You _can_ go back to work, if you like.”

       Molly jerks back into motion. “I—Yes! Of course, I—that is… did you need something? I thought you’d maybe go off to the lab if you had to wait around here, or text Greg, or—”

       “I did just tell you that I _chose_ to come here,” Sherlock reminds her. Molly raises her eyebrows.

       “Oh. But you just said—”

       “Everything was fine with John, yes. Clearly _not_ what I came to talk about, then.” Sherlock leans forward, lacing his fingers together under his chin. “I wanted to talk to you about Mycroft.”

       Molly frowns. “Mycroft? What’s happened?”

       “ _Mycroft,_ ” Sherlock begins in a faux-pleasant voice, “has once again taken it upon himself to stick his overly large nose into places it doesn’t belong. Namely, my relationship with John.” At Molly’s continued look of incomprehension, he sighs and cuts to the chase. “Last night, Mycroft told me that it was his intention to monitor my and John’s contract once it’s been filed in the local registrar’s office, with the promise to interfere should anything be written that he deems… problematic.”

       Molly’s brow wrinkles further. “Did you tell him you didn’t want him to?”

       Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course, for all the good that it did, but he won’t listen to me. I’m his younger brother, and a submissive, and _vulnerable_ , in his mind. That’s why I need you. I need you to get in touch with him and let him know, in no uncertain terms, that his attentions are entirely unwelcome and tell him to kindly _bugger off_.”

       Surprisingly, Molly doesn’t even bother telling him off for his language. “I—of course I will.” She strips off her gloves and goes over to a pad on the counter to jot down a note. “I’ll call him when I’ve got a free moment. Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”

       Sherlock shrugs and curls his shoulders forward, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “It’s hardly your fault. If anything, it’s mine for testing him with my behaviour… before.”

       “That’s not an excuse,” Molly insists, and a small bubble of validation rises up in Sherlock’s stomach. “I’ll call him. But…” and now she smiles at him apologetically. “I really do have to get back to work right now. I’m doing some sample analyses, but you’re welcome to stay around and help if you want.”

       Any other time, Sherlock would decline the offer. Molly’s work is generally tedious to the extreme, as few if any of her patients have died of anything more anomalous than old age or alcohol poisoning. Still, the idea of being close to her, a known quantity, after the stress and humiliation of last night is comforting, and so he nods at her and is gratified when her smile expands into something that brightens her entire face.

       “Great,” she says, and a prickle of pleasure shivers down Sherlock’s spine at the praise. “I was hoping for an extra pair of hands. Go wash up and put on some gloves.”

 -

       The work is dull, just as Sherlock had predicted. Or perhaps monotonous would be a better word; he isn’t intellectually engaged, but the constant give and take of order and compliance is soothing on his mind, and within a quarter of an hour he finds himself able to predict Molly’s wants with barely a glance, fetching and holding things for her in capable silence. The placid calm of subspace shuts down everything except the most important of concerns, and while it’s pleasurable enough that he would be content to stay there for hours, serving Mistress, he suddenly realises that he hasn’t yet complied with John’s very first order.

       “Mistress?” he asks. She hums quietly without lifting her eyes from the chemicals she’s measuring: paying attention, but being careful. He continues. “John wanted me to tell you something yesterday.”

       “Oh?” Mistress glances up at him. “What was it?”

       He’s a bit nervous about this part. He needs to obey, though. For John. “I… didn’t like our punishment of putting me out by the gate. He thought that was something you ought to know.”

       Mistress pauses, then slowly puts the vials down and pushes her goggles up onto her forehead. “Didn’t like it how, exactly?”

       Sherlock hesitates. “It… gave me flashbacks.” He winces in distaste at the word and at Mistress’ flinch in response. “Nothing as bad as Sebastian, Mistress. But it was unpleasant. I… often thought that you’d left me, or that you were never coming back.”

       “Why—” Mistress starts, then stops herself. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

       “I didn’t want you to be angry.” Sherlock looks down at his hands, wishing that he was holding something to keep them busy. “It wasn’t terrible, and you _were_ punishing me. I wasn’t supposed to enjoy it.”

       Mistress sighs. “I think you know what my answer will be by now, won’t you, pet?”

       Sherlock winces at the name and Mistress sighs again, laying a hand on his arm. “Sherlock,” she says. “I’m sorry, it’s a habit.”

       “I know,” Sherlock murmurs. “But John doesn’t.”

       Mistress’ lips press into a thin line. For a moment Sherlock thinks that she’s about to punish him, but her only reaction is to wrap her hand loosely around his wrist and tug him gently towards a stool.

       “Sit, Sherlock,” she orders. He obeys, eyes downcast, and waits.

       “I’m not angry at you,” Mistress tells him. “But I need to know, because this is very important: is your whole contract like that? Like the one you showed me in your closet?”

       Sherlock shakes his head.

       “Words please, Sherlock.”

       “No, Mistress.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I… liked the contract John made. It was good.”

       “But you didn’t tell him what you wanted.”

       “No.” He can hear her unspoken question in the silence that follows, but all he can offer is a helpless shrug. “I don’t _need_ it. He can send me under without it.”

       “But that’s where you go when you go under,” Mistress reminds him. “That’s how ‘space manifests in you a lot of the time, and it’ll help John know what to do if you tell him what’s going on in that head of yours.”

       “I can’t.” It hurts him to say it, the longing to believe what Mistress is telling him eating away at his resolve, but he knows what John is going to say, knows what he is going to think, and he can’t bear the thought of John looking at him like he’s dirty or broken or diseased. He needs to hide it, break it, retrain that part of himself, and then lock it away where John will never find it. That’s the only way.

       “Sherlock. Listen to me.” Mistress takes one of his hands between her own and squeezes it, prompting him to look up at her. “You need to talk to John. You need to tell him about these things, about sex and being a kitten, before you get in too far. Has he asked you to move in with him yet?”

       “We’ve talked about it.” Sherlock looks away. “He’s designated me a bedroom.”

       “Oh, Sherlock…” Mistress is looking at him with an almost pitying expression, and it sends a spark of resistance down Sherlock’s spine. “You need to tell him. I’m sure he doesn’t want to hurt you, but that’s what’s going to end up happening if you just leave it off. He’s not going to be angry with you.”

       “I’m not worried about him being angry,” Sherlock argues. “I’m worried about him thinking that I want to act out breeding scenarios just because my preferred method of submitting involves me on all fours, helpless at his feet.”

       “But you can _explain_ that to him.” Mistress’ voice rises until it sounds as though she’s pleading with him. “You can tell him that’s not what you want.”

       “Except then he’ll leave, because what else will he have to stay for?” Sherlock demands angrily. “If I won’t give him sex, either normally or as an animal, then what other use does he have for me?”

       Mistress doesn’t reply for a moment. She merely looks at him, head tilted and lips pushed together in a way that Sherlock quickly comes to realise is her holding back tears.

       “You don’t mean that,” she says. “I taught you better than that, you can’t still believe that’s all you’re good for.”

       Sherlock lets out an explosive sigh and presses his fingertips against his temples. “I have to be good for _something_ ,” he grits out. “I have to offer him _something_ , don’t you see that? It’s a give and take, and no one wants a pet at this age!”

       “Ask him,” Molly says. The order is quiet, but its effect ripples through Sherlock’s skin and he stares at her, dumbstruck.

       “Excuse me?”

       “I want you to ask him.” Molly’s eyes glisten as she crosses her arms over her chest, but her voice is no less firm. “I can’t watch you set yourself up for failure, not when you’re so close to finding something this good for you. At least see how he feels about it; if you’re right and he doesn’t care for it, then you can decide if you want to go forward with the relationship or not, but I don’t want you denying yourself something that makes you happy just because you’re convinced he’ll think poorly of you.”

       Sherlock closes his eyes. She doesn’t understand. He _has_ to stay with John, whatever the outcome of his confession; he’s a one-of-a-kind Dom, able to appreciate Sherlock’s moods and personality and career and not label him a freak because of them. Even if he could find a Dom out there that could deal acceptably with his pet desires, the chances that they would be a match with John in every other way are so slim as to be non-existent. And he—John is _special._ The memory makes him want to cringe in shame, but he’d said so last night and meant every word. John has insinuated himself so neatly and so quickly into Sherlock’s life that the idea of cutting him out now is repellent. He has to stay.

       But how is Sherlock supposed to manage that if Molly wants him to come clean?

       “Sherlock.” Molly’s voice is stern. “Will you talk to John?”

       _Talk to John._ Sherlock’s mind races. Talking to John is not quite the same thing as asking him; it needn’t require him giving anything away. True, Molly’s just ordered him to ask John about pet play, but her second order (question, really) is much more vague. If he can just lead his biology in the direction of the second, rather than the first, perhaps he can get the relief of carrying out her command without actually, well, obeying.

       “Yes, Mistress,” he says, just as Molly opens her mouth to ask him again. “I’ll talk to John. About pet play.”

       “Good.” Molly reaches out to brush a hand down his arm, fiddling absently with the buttons on his sleeve. “I’m sorry to be so forceful about it, Sherlock. I’m just so… I want you to get something out of this time with me, and I want you to be able to take care of yourself when it’s all over. This is going to be an important experience for you.”

       “I know.” Sherlock leans his head against her and watches as her fingers trace soothing, abstract patterns across his arm. “I know.”

 -

       John ends up texting him about an hour or so later. The message is brief: _Cafeteria?,_ and Sherlock studies it for a moment before speaking.

       “Sorry, Molly, I’ve got to dash,” he says slowly. “John’s just texted.”

       Molly glances up at him from where she’s preparing for her fourth analysis. “You remember what you have to do?”

       “ _Yes_.” Sherlock tries to keep his voice polite, if insistent. It won’t do any good to get frustrated with Molly now. “I’ll take care of myself. I promise.” He pauses. “And please don’t worry about me moving in with him. You have my mobile number and can call me anytime. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

       His phone vibrates again. _Sherlock? Are you there?_ Raising an eyebrow, he fires off a return text: _With Molly. There soon._

       Molly sighs. “You should get going. When should I expect you back at the flat to pick up your things?”

       “Probably some time this week. If Lestrade doesn’t contact me about the case, perhaps tomorrow or the day after.”

       “All right.” Molly flashes him a strained smile, then returns to her test tubes. “Be good, Sherlock.”

       _Be good._ Sherlock shrugs back into his coat, lips tight as he nods. He’s not entirely sure he knows what that means anymore, either for Molly or for John, but he can try. He has to.

 

* * *

 

       Sherlock finds John sitting alone in a remote corner of the cafeteria, hands clutched loosely around a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Steam curls gently in the air above the cup, but John doesn’t seem to be interested in drinking. Rather, he stares pensively off into the middle distance, his phone lying ignored on the table beside him.

       Sherlock draws up short. His Dom is upset—about his patient, obviously—but what’s happened? John doesn’t look numb in a way that would suggest his patient had died; he merely looks withdrawn, perhaps a bit angry or frustrated—had something gone wrong that he could have prevented? It shouldn’t be this difficult to figure it out. _Think._

       Except his submissive side is distracting him: his Dom is distressed, therefore he needs to make it better. But what can he do in public? He doesn’t yet know how much activity John is comfortable with displaying. If he kisses John, or touches him anywhere but on his hands or his hair, people will look. (They might look even then.) That might make it worse—who would want to own Sherlock Holmes? People might embarrass John—but he has to do _something_. His knees twitch and he frowns, thoughtful. Kneel to John? In the cafeteria? Would that be too much? But think of how much it would please John, Sherlock ignoring his distaste of public subbing to make John happy—

       _Sherlock will not sub in public solely to please John,_ he remembers. That’s in their contract, explicitly. If he breaks that rule, John will not be pleased. He will be angry, or worse, disappointed. Not happy.

       …But what if Sherlock _wants_ to?

       Except he doesn’t. He can’t. Everyone in this hospital knows he belongs (or belonged, anyway) to Molly. Everyone here has seen him kneeling on the pavement outside, cold and alone and humiliated, waiting for his Mistress to come back and set him free. If they see him kneeling inside, by choice, to a different Dom… Sherlock grits his teeth. Fine, then. He won’t. He can help John without subbing. He’ll prove it.

       “You didn’t lose your patient,” he remarks in a forcibly light tone, sliding into the seat opposite John. It takes a moment, but eventually John blinks up at him, tilting his head. Aware. Good.

       “Why would you say that?” John’s voice is quiet, tired, yet his eyes are curious. Sherlock’s distracting him. Keep going.

       “Your behaviour in the taxi was agitated,” Sherlock recites by way of reply. “You were focussing on your phone the entire time, likely looking at information sent to you by the medical staff or inquiring about your patient’s condition. Once we arrived at the hospital, you hardly paid me any mind, giving me incredibly vague orders as all of your attention shifted to the nurse. Obviously, you cared deeply about this patient. Then radio silence for almost two hours, and then you summon me with two very closely spaced texts: not orders, but pleas for reassurance. You needed someone to talk to about what happened, but in the context of support, which means something happened that you didn’t understand. If they had died, you would have been angry, blaming yourself for what had happened, and I may not have heard from you for hours until you’d worked it out of your system. So what happened?”

       His heart is pounding as he finishes, but John, rather than getting up in arms over his psyche being analysed, seems almost to deflate at Sherlock’s words. “It’s… this patient of mine,” he says heavily. “He’s in here a lot. Always plays a bit rough and doesn’t know when to stop. This time…” He takes a hand off of his coffee cup and curls it into a fist a few times, looking at it rather than at Sherlock. “This time, his play partner asked if they could use a dog. A real-live, fucking dog.”

       Sherlock’s eyes widen in disbelief. “You’re not serious.” This—it’s almost a ridiculously perfect coincidence. Not _quite_ on the mark, no, but if he could just steer the conversation the tiniest bit over—

       John sighs, taking his other hand off the cup, then rubs them both over his face. “I wish I wasn’t,” he says, voice tight. “He’s fine now—they had already started surgery by the time they texted me, and basically all I had to do was oversee everything. But then afterwards, I waited in his room for him to get lucid so I could ask him if he’d consented. He said no.”

       Sherlock doesn’t speak. He’s not really sure what _to_ say to something like that, to be honest, but thankfully the choice is taken from him soon enough as John exhales explosively and shoves his coffee away.

       “I just don’t know why he didn’t _safeword._ ”

       “Perhaps he couldn’t have,” Sherlock objects before he can stop himself. John’s tone is accusatory, and riles him a bit more than he’d care to admit. “Most pets are non-verbal, John. Even if he’d wanted to, it’s unlikely he’d have been able to express that in a way that his Dom would have understood, if they weren’t familiar with each other.”

       “You think he’s a pet?” John asks, surprised. “He’s never discussed it with me.”

       “Why would he have?” Sherlock demands. “It’s stigmatised and highly personal, of course he’d never have talked about it with you.”

       John leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. “I _am_ his doctor. I don’t give a damn about what he gets up to in the bedroom, so long as it doesn’t end up with him coming in to A and E. He ought to know that by now.”

       What he—oh. _Oh._ Well, that’s… telling. A strange, sick feeling blooms in Sherlock’s stomach and he lowers his head so that the hunching of his shoulders seems more natural and less about trying to stave off the sudden hot ache spreading throughout his chest. Hopefully John will just interpret it as an acquiescence to his opinion, and not as a manifestation of something as ridiculous as sentiment.

       He shouldn’t have been expecting anything different. Just because John’s been miraculously and inexplicably understanding of everything Sherlock’s thrown at him so far doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have his own limits, and Sherlock needs to learn to respect them. It’s not like it’ll be difficult, really, to stifle that part of himself. He can simply channel it into his cigarettes or his nicotine patches, or perhaps seek out some sort of punishment when he gets too close to the edge. Really, it’ll hardly take any time at all.

       “Hey.” John’s voice suddenly goes soft in concern and he stretches out a hand to touch Sherlock’s across the table. “What’s going on? Why’re you getting upset?”

       “I’m not upset.” Sherlock jerks his hand away. “I’m perfectly fine.”

       “Bollocks.” John reaches further and taps him sharply on his knuckles. “I can tell you’re not. Now what’s the matter?”

       “ _Nothing,_ ” Sherlock insists. “I’m just…” _Disappointed._ “…tired.” His shoulders slump and he hangs his head, unable to bring himself to look John in the face. “Can we go back to the flat, now?”

       For a long moment, John doesn’t speak. Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s thinking: he can’t tell if John’s angered by the request, or still irritatingly worried about his mental state. He can’t even decide if he’s just politely waiting for Sherlock to look at him before he answers. He doesn’t particularly care. All he wants is to get home and away from John before his composure cracks and he says or does something that he knows he’ll regret.

       At last, gentle fingers lay themselves across the back of his neck and Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

       “It’s okay,” John whispers. “Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

       “Here we are,” John says quietly once they’ve passed through the door and into the living room of 221B. Sherlock doesn’t reply, merely blinks at him silently as he removes his coat with slow, lethargic movements.

       Something’s wrong with Sherlock. All the way back to the flat his expression had been closed off, emotionless, as if he was thinking deeply about something; John knows Sherlock would have him believe it’s the case, but he can tell it’s something else. His mood had started that morning, if John’s being honest, and it had only gotten worse once they’d met up again at the hospital.

       He doesn’t _think_ he’s done anything: he’d made sure to provide Sherlock aftercare (by his own terms, anyway) the night before, but perhaps he hadn’t done something Sherlock was used to, or wanted but hadn’t been able to ask for. Or it could just be Sherlock pushing back and testing him; normal for most new Dom/sub pairs, and even more of a predictable response for a sub that’s had inconsistent Domming.

       Still… John can’t bring himself to believe that, not entirely. The defiance, sure; Sherlock’s been alone for a long time, and John needs to teach him how to bend once more to the chain of command, flexible though it may be. But the submission, the silence—it has something to do with John’s patient, he’s sure of it. He just needs to figure out what.

       “Sherlock?” he asks. Sherlock glances at him expectantly, but his eyes are still dull and his shoulders still droop as if there’s a weight laid across them. John bites his lip.

       “How’s this?” he decides. “You go upstairs and take a nap. You look like you need one. I’ll come get you in an hour or two, and then we can eat or just spend some time together, whatever you’d like.”

       He expects Sherlock to put up a fight, insist that he’s not tired or some other such nonsense, but Sherlock simply nods and tilts his neck to the side, baring the skin for John to touch. It makes something deep in John’s stomach clench to see, Sherlock needing this type of reassurance twice in such a short time span, but he steps forward and responds, stroking his fingertips down the side of Sherlock’s neck in a gentle brush that has Sherlock sighing before he pulls away and heads towards the stairs.

       John watches him go quietly, then once he hears Sherlock’s door close upstairs, he turns to grab his laptop from its spot on his desk.

       Time to research.

       But where to begin? John pauses, fingers laced in front of his mouth as he watches the thin black line blink in and out on his computer screen. What is he meant to type? _Why is my sub withdrawn? Why is he hiding things from me?_ Those could have a million responses, potentially.

       John sighs and turns in his seat to gaze wistfully towards his armchair. He’d been sitting there just last night with Sherlock, and everything had been going so _smoothly_ ; Sherlock had gone into subspace beautifully, scampering around in delight and saying things that John would never have expected to be hiding under his prickly daytime exterior—things like _John is special_ and _John thinks I’m good._ Things that John hasn’t heard in, well… a very long time.

       John desperately wants to see Sherlock like that once again. It’s obviously an area that brings him pleasure, and seeing him so relaxed, so _happy,_ had caused a tender warmth in John’s chest just by knowing that he was the one to bring Sherlock there. But Sherlock had denied it just this morning, hadn’t he? Called it an anomaly, something that wasn’t supposed to happen and that he didn’t want to talk about. But is that just because he was embarrassed? John can remember in vivid detail the “goodnight kiss” Sherlock had given him after he’d been tucked in. That quick flash of tongue, gentle against John’s skin, but unexpected enough to send a flash of adrenaline and curiosity down his spine. Perhaps Sherlock just hadn’t been thinking, but John suddenly has his keyword. Turning back to his computer, he seeks out his keys and types _why would my sub lick me?_

Enter.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, you guys. This story has hit 170 pages on its Word document and over 100,000 words (Word apparently stops counting once you get that high). I never expected this story to get so long, nor for me to continue it this far, and it's still nowhere near finished. Thank you all for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. I certainly enjoyed writing it. :)
> 
> (Other note: some of the things John discovers on his computer actually come from sites I found while googling pet play. Other things have been mixed in from my own imagination.)
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: The opening scene of this chapter was not included when I first uploaded the chapter. It does not have an important impact of the plot- it is mostly descriptive and for effect- but I am adding it and apologizing for not noticing sooner.

       _Stupid sub._

_Stupid, foolish, idiotic submissive; did you really think that Master would be fine with it?_

       Sherlock curls himself into a tight little ball on his bed, face buried in his arms as his hands clasp the back of his skull. He’d been so naïve, so _stupidly_ hopeful about everything; how could he have thought that John would have responded any differently, would somehow have approached the topic with any other opinion but the ones he’s heard over and over throughout his adult life?

       _That’s a bit kinky, isn’t it?_

_Does that mean you want me to go fetch my dog? He’s just downstairs, I’ll go get him._

_God, that’s hot. You want me to breed you right here, right now?_

_How old are you, twelve?_

       Sherlock clenches his hands into fists and forces back the urge to cover his ears with the pillow. He’s being ridiculous. It’s not as bad as all that; John hasn’t figured it out, and now that Sherlock knows how he feels about it, he’s not going to tell him. It’ll be fine.

       …But the thought of never being able to tell Master, never being able to go to him and brush up against his leg and beg to be pet, never being able to just curl up on Master’s lap and go to sleep without worrying about where Master’s hands will be when he wakes up—Sherlock’s chest constricts and he moans quietly into his knees, trying to keep his voice down so John doesn’t come up to see what’s the matter.

       John would be so kind to him, he knows. John would never force him into anything, never call him names or tell him to his face that he’s worthless or silly for wanting this. Even if he was confused and couldn’t understand what Sherlock wanted from it, he would be a good Dom, and tell Sherlock anything he wanted to hear if only he asked. Sherlock knows this. Or, well, he can at least imagine it to be true. John is just that kind of person; it’s not difficult to see.

       But he can’t risk it. What if, one day, he does something, demands something, that crosses the line for John? What if he comes to John after a long day at work, demanding to be hugged and kissed and spoiled, and John puts his foot down, saying he isn’t in the mood to attend to Sherlock’s every need and would Sherlock just stand up and act _normally,_ for fuck’s sake? What if John gets fed up from weeks and months of no sexual release (assuming they even make it that long) and goes to find someone else because Sherlock cannot (will not) satisfy him? Will he try and hide the evidence afterwards, or will he let it remain on his skin, a silent admonishment to Sherlock to do better, to try harder to please his Dom?

       Sherlock doesn’t think he could take it, if that were the case.

       Slowly, almost unconsciously, he brings his hands back around to his face, pressing the backs of his thumbs against his mouth as if he were about to suck them. For a moment he leaves them there, gently massaging the skin with his lips, then slides his right hand along until he’s mouthing at his wrist, licking and nipping at it by turns. He knows he shouldn’t be doing it—before long his skin will turn red and get irritated and bruise, and John will be angry—but he can’t help it, he needs the stimulation, otherwise the tears welling in the corners of his eyes will fall, and that’s ridiculous. Kittens don’t cry. Therefore, Sherlock won’t either.

  

* * *

 

     Petplay.

       John studies the word that’s suddenly been plastered all over his laptop screen, clicking through the links presented to him and absorbing the information rapid-fire.

       _The act of pretending to be an animal, most often carried out by the submissive… Not related to bestiality in any way- NO ANIMALS USED, IF YOU DO, GET HELP… Usually not for sexual purposes, though some may engage in sex play… WE’RE NOT CHILDREN, STOP TREATING US LIKE THEM… Most common animals are puppies and kittens, occasionally pigs or cows… Reinforces the owner/owned relationship between the Dominant and the submissive, enforces the sub’s sense of dependence on the Dom… Can be made to feed from bowls on the floor, sleep in pet beds or at their Master’s feet… Very affectionate, loving. Pet play comes from a space deep inside of us where all we want is to make you happy… we just have to be animals to do it properly._

       It’s overwhelming, and eventually John has to sit back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose to stave off the oncoming headache.

       Sherlock is a pet; there’s practically no denying it at this point. His behaviour matches practically everything he’s seeing on these sites, including the simplified (but not childlike) speech (no use of “daddy”, correctly conjugated verbs), expressive body language, and coordinated crawling (littles often experience some shakiness and loss of fine motor control while under, and Sherlock had exhibited none of that, save for when he was trying to walk).

       Then there’s the “kiss” to think about. John groans.

       He knows that there’s a variety of opinions out there on human pets. He’s always been a bit unsure of it himself, however, despite the insistence of his professors in med school that all flavours of human sexuality were valid and deserving of respect, regardless of personal opinion. The idea of asking a submissive to not only hand over their autonomy but also their personhood had never quite sat right with him; it felt like asking for more than he deserved as a Dom, and objectifying besides. Surely even the subs who asked for humiliation expected their Doms to still consider them as human beings—that was the entire point, wasn’t it? If you didn’t consider yourself a human being to begin with, why would being demeaned have any impact?

       But that’s not at issue right now. The issue is that Sherlock has lied to him—multiple times, now—about his dynamic, and for what? To snare John? To keep his attention? He would have had that regardless; Sherlock is gorgeous, and from their few scenes together, John knows that his style of submitting is one of the sweetest and most earnest he’s ever seen. The level of trust he’s exhibited to John, even after what’s happened to him (which, admittedly, John doesn’t know much about, although he has some ideas), makes his heart hurt and leaves him more determined than ever to show Sherlock that submitting doesn’t have to mean pain.

       But _lying_ to John. That is unacceptable, no matter why he’s done it, and John sighs as he rubs a tired hand over his face. He hadn’t wanted to punish Sherlock this early on, but it looks like he’s going to have to. It’s not just his authority as Dom that’s being questioned if he doesn’t, it’s allowing Sherlock to perpetuate behaviours that are unsafe and beliefs that are untrue, and John won’t have it. Sherlock deserves better than that.

       But… as John stands up and turns towards the door, another thought occurs to him. In this case, the _why_ of Sherlock’s lying really does matter; like Sherlock had said, it’s a highly stigmatised identity to claim. John himself has biases, as much as he’d like to say otherwise. Perhaps Sherlock had just been looking out for himself? Maybe… maybe some of the abuse he’d suffered had revolved around his identity as a pet, and now he’s been waiting, testing John to see if he would be safe before revealing what he really wants.

       John purses his lips. This isn’t going to be an easy decision to make; Sherlock needs to know that what he’s done is wrong, but at the same time he needs to know that he’s safe with John, and that he’d never be hurt for expressing his desires. John may have little and less experience with pets, but he cares for Sherlock, and at this point he doubts there’s anything Sherlock could want that he wouldn’t try his hardest to provide.

       The only obstacle that remains is getting Sherlock to understand that.

 

* * *

 

       The sound of feet on the stair startles Sherlock from his reverie and he jerks his head up, wrist falling limply out of his mouth. _Danger._ He stares down at it for a moment, uncomprehending, then blinks as everything falls into place. Master is coming. _Danger._ Is Sherlock ready? What is he going to have to do?

       Sherlock looks around wildly, mind racing as he tries to decide the best position to be in when Master arrives. Pretend to be asleep? If Master wants him, he’ll wake him up anyway. Untenable. But Master had wanted him to sleep; if it’s obvious he hasn’t, will he be angry? Sherlock tugs at his hair, a voiceless whine forcing its way out of his throat. He doesn’t have enough _time!_

       He’s still debating what to do as the doorknob turns, and then Master is standing in the entrance to his room, eyes strained and face resigned, and it’s too late.

       _Do something._

       “I want to move in with you,” Sherlock blurts out before Master has time to speak. Master’s eyes widen in response, and Sherlock wants to slap himself. Too abrupt, much too abrupt. _Stupid submissive._ He takes a breath and starts again, lowering his head just in case he’s caused any offense.

       “ _John_ ,” he corrects himself. “I was wondering—would you be amenable to me moving in, possibly this week? I know we’ve talked about it, but you never really gave me a definitive answer, and I was thinking—”

       “Sherlock.” John interrupts him softly as he edges slowly into the room, attention captured by something on Sherlock’s face. “Have you been crying?”

       Has he? Sherlock frowns, and lifts a hand to dab at his eyes with the back of his thumb. …Oh. So he has.

       “It’s nothing.” Sherlock moves to dry his eyes with his cuff, then winces as the saliva-dampened cloth touches his skin. He means to try with his other wrist instead, but John catches the motion and then his eyes narrow.

       “What’s that?”

       “What’s what?” But Sherlock knows it’s a lost cause. John’s already stepped forward, hand outstretched in a wordless command for Sherlock to show him his wrist. There’s not much else to do at this point but obey and hope John won’t be too angry.

       John studies the wound in silence for several moments, then touches a finger to the damp skin thoughtfully. It doesn’t hurt, but Sherlock grimaces anyway at the feel of saliva against skin. _Don’t pull away._

       “Sherlock,” John starts carefully, “did you... _bite_ yourself?”

       Sherlock hesitates. He wants to lie—biting himself, disgusting, embarrassing, like an animal, shameful—but then John looks up at him, right into his eyes, and he can’t. He turns away, trying to block out the feel of John’s hand on his wrist. “I… yes. Several times. I’m sorry.”

       He can still feel John’s eyes on him, the silence in the room so loud as to be overwhelming. What is John going to do? Will he yell at Sherlock? Punish him? Sherlock supposes he deserves it by this point, having broken as many rules as he has, but he still cowers internally at the thought. He doesn’t know what John’s like, yet, as a punishing Dom. Will he be cruel? He doesn’t think so, John doesn’t seem the type, but then he’d been a soldier; there must be some hidden layer of violence to him. Sherlock feels sick.

       “Okay.” John’s voice is quiet, but it captures Sherlock’s attention as strongly as if he’d snapped. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Are you listening?”

       Sherlock nods. “Yes, John.”

       “We’re going to go downstairs,” John tells him. “We’re going to bandage this—” he shakes Sherlock’s wrist gently—“and then you’re going to have your first punishment.”

       He’d known it was coming, agrees with John’s judgment, even, but Sherlock can’t help the full-body shudder that shakes through him at the words. “Yes, John.”

       John pauses, then strokes his thumb soothingly along the undamaged side of Sherlock’s wrist. “It’s okay, Sherlock. I’m not angry at you. You’ve made a poor decision, and I’m unhappy about it, but I’m not angry. You understand that, right?”

       Sherlock nods again. His chest feels tight, and it’s hard to breathe, but he forces the words out anyway. “What’re you going to do?”

       “I don’t know yet.” Sherlock looks up to meet John’s eyes. “I’m going to think about it while I’m fixing you up.” He tugs Sherlock’s wrist again and stands. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

       John’s in a bit of a bind. He’s committed to punishing Sherlock, now, much as he’d have liked to avoid it. In fact, lies notwithstanding, he’d been willing to forgo it altogether, if that meant that he could have brought up the pet issue with Sherlock. The _problem_ is that Sherlock had to go ahead and hurt himself again, and as much as John thinks punishing Sherlock is not the best course of action right now, he can’t let both infractions go without consequences. That leaves him to think up a suitable punishment, however, in the ten or so minutes it’ll take for him to clean and bandage Sherlock’s wrist.

       No pressure.

       The wound isn’t particularly ugly: just an oblong, purple mark peeking out from underneath Sherlock’s cuff. The thing that disturbs John more than anything is that Sherlock had made it with his teeth; his earlier self-harm marks had come from his nails, a human enough thing to do. The biting, on the other hand, is very animalistic, and John worries that it’s a result of Sherlock suppressing himself for such a long period of time. If so, he needs to find a way to coax out that part of Sherlock, and soon, before it gets worse.

       Sherlock sits quietly at the kitchen table when he’s told, watching John move around the kitchen gathering supplies from beneath his eyelashes. John wants to tell him there’s no reason to be afraid, but he knows it won’t do any good. Sherlock doesn’t know what to expect from him, and his fear isn’t going to be assuaged until they get through this without John traumatising him yet again.

       Still, no pressure.

       Sherlock doesn’t speak throughout the ordeal. John’s not terribly surprised by this, but it hurts him every time he looks up to see Sherlock’s face carefully blank, set as if he’s about to face down a firing squad. He gets the job done as quickly and painlessly as he can, and then they are sitting quietly in the kitchen together, John stroking his fingers slowly over top of the bandage.

       “You’ve hurt yourself twice this week,” he says. Sherlock looks down at his knees.

       “I know.”

       John waits. “D’you want to tell me why you did it, this time? It won’t change the fact that I’m punishing you,” he adds when Sherlock looks up, “but it might help us figure out how to make this not happen again.”

       Sherlock shrugs and once more averts his eyes. “It’s not important.”

       “I disagree,” John replies, “but if that’s your final answer…?” Sherlock doesn’t respond, and John’s lips thin. Time’s up.

       “All right,” he says. “Follow me.”

       He leads Sherlock into the living room, pausing beside the coffee table as he decides how he wants to do this. Several options present themselves to him, but each one is discarded almost immediately. _Inappropriate. Too harsh. Too soon._ What is he supposed to do? Then, after several seconds of silent thought, his gaze lands on his computer, still sitting open on the desk, and suddenly he knows.

       “I want you to kneel,” he says, pointing at the space beside the coffee table. “Back straight, hands in front of you, don’t sit down on your heels.”

       Sherlock obeys him wordlessly, crossing the room with short, quick steps, and sinks to his knees more or less with grace. He hangs his head once he’s in position; the sight tugs at something inside John’s chest, but he shakes his head and locks it away carefully, blanking his expression as best he can. That part of him has no place here. It is time for discipline. When all of this is over, he may go to Sherlock and comfort him. Not before.

       “Don’t move,” he orders Sherlock. Slowly, deliberately, he steps forward until he’s right behind Sherlock, then lowers himself onto his knees. _Remember the diagram. Go gently._

       When his hand makes contact with the back of Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock’s muscles tense so quickly that John worries that he’s going to hurt himself, and his head twitches to the side to try and look back at his Dom. _No._

       “I said, _don’t move_ ,” John repeats, and tightens his grip just enough to force Sherlock’s head forward again. “You’re only to move if I tell you.” Carefully, making sure to avoid the still-healing scratches, he takes the scruff of Sherlock’s neck in hand and begins to push forward. “Down. Now.”

       Sherlock obeys, first supporting himself on his hands, then his elbows, then finally his bent forearms as John continues to push. He hasn’t made any noise yet, either of confusion or pain, but John can hear his breathing elevate and knows that he’s desperately trying to figure out what John’s going to do to him.

       “All the way down,” he says, and Sherlock keeps going until he’s practically laid out flat on the floor, hands trapped beneath himself, John curled over his back and half straddling him.

       “Good boy,” John says, and Sherlock jerks in surprise. John leans into him a bit with his elbow. “I’ve told you not to move three times, now, Sherlock. Don’t make it a fourth.”

       Sherlock makes a quiet acquiescing noise low in his throat and presses his forehead into the carpet, offering more of his throat to John. Good, he’s submitting. But he has to go further under.

       “Thank you.” John waits for a minute, easing up on his elbow, but doesn’t relinquish his hold on Sherlock’s neck. The position doesn’t quite have the intended effect, however, as Sherlock does not go limp, but rather begins to tremble as time goes on. John frowns. Is he doing it wrong? Has he _judged_ this all wrong? He’d read that it was only supposed to take a minute or two to subdue a pet like this, unless… oh. Memories of the kitchen, of Sherlock’s terrified deer-in-headlights look when John got too close inside his personal space, flick through his mind, and suddenly he understands. _Oh, Sherlock._

       “Shh,” he soothes, and brings up his other hand to stroke down Sherlock’s shoulder to his elbow and back up again. “It’s all right, Sherlock. This isn’t going to end in sex. I promised you, sex and punishments don’t mix. We won’t be doing that here. I promise. It’s all right.”

       It takes a few more minutes of whispered soothing, but eventually Sherlock’s breaths even out and the shivering abates, and at long last his muscles go limp beneath John with a heavy exhale that John can _feel_ take all of his tension with it.

       “Good,” he whispers. “You’re such a good boy, Sherlock, I’m so proud of you.” He strokes Sherlock’s arm a few more times, then decides he’s fallen far enough to be compliant. He loosens his grip on Sherlock’s neck, letting his hand just rest on top of it instead, and begins to speak.

       “Beautiful boy,” he murmurs. “I know you’re hurting. You hurt yourself for a reason; I know you didn’t do it just to make me angry. But you’re not allowed to make that choice for yourself. You’re not allowed to cause yourself pain. That’s my job, and my responsibility. Do you understand that?”

       Sherlock says nothing. Merely breathes, deeply, in and out through his nose. His face is still pressed into the carpet, and John cannot tell whether his eyes are open or closed.

       Slowly, John switches hands, so that his left is now the one pressing down on Sherlock’s neck and his right is touching Sherlock’s back.

       “I am the only one allowed to cause you pain,” he says. “Not Lestrade, not Molly, not your brother, not anyone. Not you, never you, _especially_ not you.” He curls his right hand into a loose fist and begins to drag the knuckles down Sherlock’s back. The pressure’s not hard enough to hurt yet, but he can tell that Sherlock’s felt it; his breathing hitches the tiniest bit and he twitches, not quite enough to be called a flinch. John lets the movement slide and repeats the motion.

       He repeats it several times, increasing the pressure each time until Sherlock is panting, muscles tight under the strain to keep still. It’s a beautiful sight, and John marvels openly as he rakes his knuckles down Sherlock’s spine again and again.

       “Good boy,” he says every few strokes. “Such a good boy, staying still for me. You’re doing so well, Sherlock, just a few more. You’re doing fine. It’s all right.”

       Finally he stops, and removes his hand from Sherlock’s neck, brushing up through his hair to stroke his skull instead.

       “That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re done, Sherlock, it’s all right. It’s all over. Sit up for me, now.”

       Sherlock is slow to react, shoulders still heaving as quiet noises escape from his throat with every exhale. It takes him almost a full minute to start to obey the command, first choosing to turn his head and look up at John from the floor, eyes glazed over from sensation and subspace.

       “John,” he whispers, and John feels his stern expression begin to crack. His sub. His beautiful, loyal, perfect submissive.

       “I’m right here.” His hand cups the side of Sherlock’s face, thumb stroking Sherlock’s cheekbone lovingly. “Are you okay? It doesn’t hurt too bad?”

       Sherlock tilts his head to one side then back, a slow shake. “Help me sit up?”

       “Of course.” John carefully helps Sherlock roll over onto his side, then puts his hands under Sherlock’s arms and gently pulls until Sherlock is upright and leaning against the coffee table. His hands tremble as they push at the floor for support, and so John moves to sit beside him, one arm around his waist to keep him still.

       “You did very well,” he tells Sherlock quietly as they sit together in the silence of the living room. “I’m proud of you.”

       Sherlock’s face creases into a frown. He doesn’t look like he particularly wants to say what’s on his mind, but after a quick glance up at John’s face, the words come tumbling out, hesitantly. “John, about… about the punishment.”

       John’s immediately attentive, but Sherlock falls silent again. That’s fine. He can have as much time as he likes.

       After several minutes have passed, however, in which Sherlock hasn’t tried to speak again, John figures he might as well prompt him. “Did it make you uncomfortable?”

       “No, no.” Sherlock shakes his head. “It was…” he clears his throat. “It was good. Only…” he hesitates again, and John notices that he’s shivering. Wordlessly, he gets up and retrieves the blanket from the back of his chair, then returns and places it over Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock thanks him quietly, then continues.

       “Where… where did you learn it?”

       Where, indeed. John looks at him, wondering what he ought to say. Should he tell Sherlock the truth? That he’d stumbled across a page during his research that talked about pet-specific rewards and punishments, and that he’d spent an inordinate amount of time on there taking notes just in case? That he’d been picturing Sherlock as he read them, imagining the expressions and sounds he would make in response to each one, that he’d even found some ideas for scenes that he desperately wanted to try, if only Sherlock would just _trust_ him and tell him that it was all right?

       John looks at Sherlock’s face, tired and drawn and confused, and decides. Not yet. He’ll think up a good way to tell him, something that will be special for them both. Not something sprung upon Sherlock while he’s still recovering from punishment and distress. Sherlock deserves better than that.

       “It was nothing,” he says, returning his arm to its place around Sherlock’s waist. “Just something I thought of—I wanted to do something different from what you’d be used to from other Doms. Is it something you’d be okay with me doing again?”

       Sherlock’s quiet for a moment, thinking. Then, after a few seconds, he glances up at John and nods without looking away. “Yes, that’s fine. I… it was… good.”

       John smiles. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and pulls Sherlock closer so that he can press a gentle kiss into his hair. Sherlock’s curls are soft and smell of citrus and sweat, and John kisses him twice more before laying his cheek on top of Sherlock’s head. “Rest for a bit, if you’d like. I’ll set out some tea and biscuits for you. Sound good?”

       Sherlock nods again, and John lets him go clamber up onto the couch and curl up in one corner of it while he stands to head into the kitchen and make the tea.

       He hasn’t forgotten what Sherlock had said, before, about moving into the flat. It’s a fine idea—he’d been wanting Sherlock to move in anyway, despite what he’d said about taking this slowly. The more he gets to know Sherlock, the more he realises that _moving slowly_ isn’t really a viable option, not for either of them. But if Sherlock’s going to be living here, John needs to be prepared. He needs to learn more about Sherlock’s history, needs to learn what sorts of things trigger him and what things calm him down, and, most importantly, he needs to learn more about this mysterious brother of his and why he’s so intent on spying on Sherlock’s decisions.

       John glances back into the living room; Sherlock is still lying curled on the couch, one foot slowly tensing and relaxing on the cushion beside him. It makes John think of a cat kneading on its blanket before it goes to sleep, and a fresh wave of affection tightens his chest and leaves him absorbed in the sight until the kettle starts to whistle, breaking him out of his thoughts.

       Sherlock Holmes may just be the best thing that has ever happened to John in his entire life, and suddenly he knows with a burning certainty that he will do whatever it takes to make him happy again.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! So I actually managed to get this out before the 1 month mark! Huzzah! On the other hand, it's not as long as I wanted it to be/there aren't as many scenes in here as I wanted. But I was afraid that, if I continued on, I wouldn't have gotten this out anytime soon, and I wanted to give you guys an update. I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> And yes, before anyone asks, I have absolutely no idea how moving in London works. Feel free to mock me if you want for my horrible rendition here. ;P
> 
> Also, I put it on my profile here, but just in case some of you don't go look there, I made a twitter this week! @bbjkrss, if you want to check it out, and I might occasionally put fic-writing updates, similar to what I put in my profile, there. Other than that it'll mostly be fandom and things, but it's a way to get to know me better, if you want. :)
> 
> And now, onwards to the fic!

            The next day and a half pass by in somewhat of a blur.

            For the rest of that first evening, John spends his time tiptoeing around Sherlock, speaking to him softly and making sure that there’s always a cup of tea and biscuits on hand in case he wants any. Sherlock, for his part, drinks one cup and nibbles on some digestives, but mostly just watches the telly that John’s put on as background noise in a pensive silence and doesn’t react much when John takes a seat on the opposite end of the sofa. After an hour or so, however, just as John’s starting to get a bit worried, he begins muttering rebukes at the programme and shifts to lean into John’s side without comment. John smiles and says nothing.

            Dinner that night is simple, something easy for Sherlock to digest after the stresses of the day. They discuss the move, and decide that John will take one more day off to help Sherlock transfer his belongings from Molly’s flat to Baker Street. No more is said about the punishment, and John doesn’t insist on any more submission than Sherlock is comfortable giving naturally. When they part for the night, John sends him off to bed with a gentle stroke on the cheek and an order to come and get John if he finds he needs any more care. Sherlock scoffs outwardly, but John can see the gratitude in his eyes before he lowers his head and wishes John a goodnight.

            The move itself is exhausting. Not because Sherlock owns an extraordinary number of possessions (most of his chemistry equipment is stored at Bart’s, Molly tells John as they pack boxes at her flat), but due to the fact that there are only three of them, and flagging down multiple cabs in order to fit everything inside in as few trips as possible is as tiring as it is frustrating. Then there’s the carrying the boxes all the way up to Sherlock’s room and unpacking and findings places for everything.

            By the time they’ve finished it’s practically dinnertime, so they say goodbye to Molly, who gives Sherlock a very long, very tight hug, and whispers some final words into his ear that John respectfully does not listen to. Then she is gone, and the flat is silent—but only for a moment, for as soon as the front door thuds closed Mrs Hudson is popping her head out of her flat, asking them if they’d like to come over to hers to eat; they must be hungry after such a long day, she says, and she wouldn’t want the roast she’s made to spoil sitting in her fridge. What she really wants is an excuse to meet Sherlock properly, John can tell, but he simply smiles at her and says yes, they’d love to, and Sherlock goes along with it willingly enough.

            The meal is pleasant: Mrs Hudson is a wonderful cook, and remarkably blasé about being deduced by Sherlock. John lets them talk for almost an hour, then clears his throat pointedly to let Sherlock know that they ought to be going. Sherlock kisses Mrs Hudson on the cheek, and then he and John return upstairs to spend the rest of the evening in companionable silence in the sitting room. When Sherlock’s yawning becomes distracting, John takes the opportunity to close his book and walk over to where Sherlock’s lying sprawled on the sofa, brushing a few strands of hair behind his ear before telling him that it’s time for bed.

            “I’ll put out a list for you before I go to sleep,” he says when Sherlock grumbles in protest. “Just a few things, as a way for us to get started on orders. D’you think that’ll work for you?”

            Sherlock nods, yawning again, and John smiles fondly. “Good. Now get to bed. You’re to wake up at seven-thirty tomorrow, all right?”

            Sherlock glances up at him, puzzled, but murmurs a quiet “yes, John,” and stands and stretches before making his way to the stairs.

            “Goodnight,” John calls after him. He waits for the murmured reply, then goes to rummage around on the desk for a pencil and some paper as he listens to bare feet pad along wood upstairs. Tomorrow, protocol begins, and he’s going to do his best to ensure that Sherlock finds it memorable.

 

* * *

 

 

            Sherlock’s phone wakes him at seven-thirty on the dot the following morning. He allows himself a few quiet seconds to stare up at the ceiling, then throws off the covers and slides his feet out onto the cold floorboards of his room. That’s one thing he misses already about Molly’s: she’d had carpeted floors. Perhaps he’ll ask John if he can add a throw rug—or he can simply buy a rug _himself_ , he amends; they hadn’t mentioned purchases as something he needs to ask permission for.

            He stands up, shuffling over to the armoire. Socks, pants, shirt, slacks—suit jacket? He decides against it. Not unless he’s going out. Thus dressed, he leaves his room, padding down the stairs quietly so as not to wake John. Once in the kitchen, though, he stops. To start on John’s breakfast first, or wash himself up? Because that’s surely something that’s going to be on John’s list, making him breakfast, and he doesn’t know if John’s going to care about the order in which he does things. There’s a piece of paper sitting on the kitchen table—John’s list, obviously. He walks over and picks it up, then freezes as he sees what’s written on it.

            _Good morning_ , the note begins. _I hope you slept well. Please tell me if you didn’t._ Sherlock sits heavily in one of the kitchen chairs. _If you could put the kettle on to boil first thing, that’d be lovely. Go and do whatever you need to get ready for the day- if it takes too long, adjust properly for tomorrow. I plan on getting up at eight- please just bring me tea with toast and jam. I trust you’ll be able to find everything. –J._

            Well. That was… tame. Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and looks up at the clock. He has twenty minutes. There’s more written on the paper, but it looks to be rules for later on in the day, so he stands and fills the kettle, flicking on the hob before going through to the loo to brush his teeth and wash his face. The kettle’s only just started whistling as he exits, and while the tea steeps he puts two slices of bread in the toaster and fetches the jam.

            Everything’s finished with time to spare, and Sherlock stands at a loss for a moment in the kitchen. He doesn’t want to let the food get cold, but he hasn’t heard John get up yet, and surely he wouldn’t want to eat immediately upon waking anyway? Sherlock himself won’t be hungry for another hour, at least. Still, that’s what John’s told him to do, and so Sherlock gathers up the food on a tray and carries it down the hall to John’s door.

            “John?”

            To his surprise, John answers immediately. “Come on in, Sherlock.”

            Balancing the tray carefully in one hand, Sherlock opens the door with the other and enters John’s room to see John lying reclined in bed, thumbing through a paperback. He looks up when Sherlock enters and offers him a smile, sitting up to set the book aside.

            “There you are,” he says. “Find everything okay?”

            Sherlock stares at him. “You’re already awake.”

            John’s smile widens. “Yeah, I am. I like reading a bit before I get up for the day. Gives me some peace and quiet.”

            “ _Getting_ up,” Sherlock puts together suddenly. “Not _waking_ up.” Trivial nuance—he should have noticed it before now. Embarrassing. John’s eyes twinkle with silent laughter, and Sherlock has to fight back the urge to glare. “Would you like your breakfast now or later, John? It’s getting cold.”

            “If you’re going to be like that, I don’t want it at all.” John’s tone shifts, and a drop of regret blooms in Sherlock’s stomach. He should have known better than that. “If you don’t want to do service, Sherlock, that’s perfectly fine, but while you’re carrying out my orders, I want you to be respectful. Do you understand?”

            “Yes, John.” Sherlock looks down at the tray. “I’m sorry. How would you like me to serve you your breakfast?”

            “Happily, if possible.” John leans forward and reaches out a hand to touch Sherlock on the arm. “ _I’m_ sorry, god. I wasn’t trying to trick you, I just thought you’d appreciate the distinction. Did I upset you?”

            For a moment, Sherlock bristles. He’d been embarrassed, true, but hardly _traumatised._ There’s no need for John to coddle him this way. But then he looks at John, eyes wide and earnest, and remembers that, to John, there’s plenty of reason. John has at least an inkling of what’s happened to him in the past, and suspects that humiliation has played a heavy part in causing Sherlock’s defensiveness and caustic tendencies. He can be forgiven for assuming that this, too, has its roots in an experience that Sherlock would rather forget.

            “No, John,” he says quietly. “I’m fine. Now, how would you like your breakfast? Redone, by this point?”

            John smiles. It’s tentative, and Sherlock can still see hints of concern in his eyes, but his body has relaxed a bit since a moment ago, and he can feel his own following suit. “Nah, that’s fine. It’s only toast, after all.” He holds out his hands for the tray and Sherlock passes it over, careful not to spill the tea. “Have you eaten yet?”

            Sherlock shakes his head. “Not hungry. I’ll eat in an hour or so,” he adds when John fixes him with a stern look.

            “You’d better.” John takes a sip of his tea, licks his lips (good, Sherlock’s made it acceptably), then replaces it in its saucer. “So. Some ground rules.” He pats the bed beside him, and Sherlock perches on the edge of the mattress. “I don’t mind much what you do while I’m at work, as long as the flat is tidy when I come back. You’re allowed to go out, don’t worry about asking permission, although I would like you to text me if you do so I have an idea of where you are. All that sound okay so far?”

            It does. John’s style of giving the orders is a bit strange—almost as if he’s asking Sherlock’s permission to give them in the first place—but Sherlock merely nods and makes nothing of it. “Yes, John.”

            “All right, then.” John leans back against the headboard, apparently done for now, and proceeds to chew on his toast. “Any plans for the day?”

            Sherlock shrugs. “Nothing concrete. Could unpack some books and do some reading.” He knows even as he says it, though, that that option doesn’t hold much appeal. What he really wants—what he’d _love_ —is for John to stay home from work and scene with him some more. John sends him down into subspace so perfectly, and his body is gasping for it, craving it as if submitting were as refreshing as a cigarette at the end of a long, tiring day. As if he were in the desert, dying of dehydration, and each minute of subspace were another paltry drop of water trying to slake his thirst.

            He stays quiet. John has a life, and responsibilities, outside of Sherlock. There’s no need for him to cling, especially not this early on in their relationship. He can take care of himself for eight measly hours, and then when John gets home, Sherlock will offer to serve him and get his fix then. That should be enough. It has to be.

            “Could go out and scout the neighbourhood,” John suggests, completely oblivious to Sherlock’s inner crisis. “Get to know the roads and everything.”

            Sherlock shrugs, disinterested but unwilling to dismiss the proposal outright. “Possibly.”

            John tilts his head, expression suddenly sympathetic. “I know it doesn’t sound like much fun, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I can try to get my hours changed a bit at the hospital if you’d like.”

            Shame diffuses through Sherlock so quickly his cheeks feel as if they’re aflame. John, offering to change his _work schedule_ for him? Changing his _income,_ his professional image, for _Sherlock?_ No. He can’t. What will people say? What will they think about him, about _John?_ What if John grows resentful towards Sherlock for asking this of him? _Don’t be needy._

            He tosses his head to the side, a much more nonchalant gesture than what he’s actually feeling. “No need. I’ll find a way to entertain myself—maybe text Lestrade, see how the investigation’s coming along.” He glances sidelong at John to check his reaction. No change. He doesn’t mind Sherlock working, even unconsciously. Good.

            “Well, if you’re sure.” John raises an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose I need to remind you to be careful?”

            The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up into a lopsided smile, and he resists the urge to offer his head to John for a comforting scratch. “Not at all.”

 -

            The rest of John’s breakfast passes by with simple enough small talk, and then Sherlock is sent back into the kitchen with the dirty dishes while John dresses. Since John hadn’t indicated needing any help to do so, Sherlock wanders aimlessly around the kitchen a few times before settling down at the table to read the rest of the list.

            The first two rules are similar to what John had told him in his room: _keep the flat tidy_ and _text me if you go out_ , although the first one is expanded upon with _you’re allowed to touch things, obviously, just put them back when you’re done_ and _do your dishes if you make any._ Under those two are _be nice to Mrs Hudson, please_ , and _I didn’t realise you played violin. Practise something to play for me this week?_

            Finally, at the bottom of the list, there are indents in the paper where John had begun writing something, then changed his mind and erased. Sherlock spends the next several minutes studying them, holding the paper up to the light and looking at them from different angles. He’s fairly sure the words are “if you,” with the faintest press of the pencil at about mid-height for the start of the next letter suggesting the phrase “if you want” as the most likely combination, considering John’s style of giving orders thus far, but that gives him no insight into what he could possibly be asking.

            He’s no closer to coming up with an answer when John comes out from his room, smoothing down his chequered button-up shirt and fixing the collar. He looks very… Dominant, really, and Sherlock’s heart flutters a bit faster in his chest.

            “Everything look fine on there?” John asks once he sees what Sherlock’s reading. “I didn’t want to make things too complicated for the first day, seeing as you’re still getting used to living here.”

            Sherlock shrugs. “Not the usual format, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Bit bland, though.”

            It’s a challenge, he understands that. One John could punish him for, potentially. John’s made it abundantly clear so far that he plans to go slowly with Sherlock, at least by some measure of the word, and it’s entirely possible that he won’t appreciate criticism of his approach. But this is the best chance Sherlock’s got at figuring out what John had intended to write, whether he had simply thought better of adding an extra rule, or if his mind had wandered and he’d corrected it after deeming the idea “inappropriate” for the current stage of their relationship, and he needs to know. He needs to be prepared.

            John, however, merely raises an eyebrow and adjusts one of his cuffs. “Boring, is it? D’you have any suggestions?”

            Sherlock wants to growl. _He_ doesn’t, that’s why he’s asking, but John apparently hadn’t caught on. Or perhaps there really wasn’t anything else, and he just figured he’d wait until tomorrow to add another command. That’s perfectly likely.

            Sherlock doesn’t enjoy relying on _particularly likelys._

            “You don’t want me to distract you at work?” he asks, keeping his voice light, playfully innocent. “Send you scandalous photos, texts, that sort of thing?”

            Pink floods John’s cheeks—he’s thinking about it, he _likes_ it—but he manages to simply clear his throat and jerk his head towards his shoulder in a dismissive gesture.

            “No, thanks,” he says. “I work in the _emergency department_ , remember? Distracting me from my patients would be more than a bit not good.” He fixes Sherlock with a thoughtful stare, however, then walks through into the living room to grab his bag from the floor by his chair.

            “Speaking of scandalous, though…” John glances away, licks his lips, looks back. Sherlock is frozen. “If you want, if you’re up for it, tonight…” he pauses again.

            Oh, god. What’s Sherlock done?

            “I’ll think about it,” he says, quickly, before John can continue. “If that’s all right?”

            That seems to shock John back to his normal self.

            “Of course it’s all right,” he says as if Sherlock’s being an idiot. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.” And then he steps forward to press a kiss into Sherlock’s hair before turning to grasp the knob on the kitchen door. “I’ll see you this evening, okay? Text me if you need me.” And then he’s gone, clomping down the stairs, leaving Sherlock staring after him with a stomach slowly filling with ice.

            John. John’s fingers, John’s tongue. Touching him. Trailing along his skin, seeking out places he himself doesn’t even touch, asking to be granted entry. Expecting it. Demanding it, if it isn’t given. He’s the Dom, it’s his right, his body to do with however he pleases. Sherlock’s place is to obey, to go along with it, hang on for the ride, try to be good and obedient and pleasing and let John see all of him, even the parts he hates, and to do it all with a smile on his face.

            Sherlock gets up and calmly walks over to the fridge. Pulls out the carton of milk, splashes a tiny bit of it down the drain. Gets out a bowl and spoon from the cupboards, runs them underneath the water for a few seconds, then places them on the draining board alongside John’s dishes from breakfast. John’s bound to have some cereal somewhere. He’ll lie and say he ate some if John asks.

            That done, he takes his phone from his pocket and navigates to Lestrade’s name under his contacts. Ignores the shaking of his fingers and the too-often pressing of the backspace key as he composes his text.

            _Need case. Where are you on analysing the security footage? SH_

            Miraculously, it only takes about thirty seconds for Lestrade to answer.

            _Actually, we may just have found something you might like. John okay with it if you come over here?_

Sherlock’s mouth twitches. _Never mind about John. I’m coming. Twenty minutes. SH_

            Thus decided, he switches his phone to silent and runs upstairs to grab his coat and shoes. This is precisely what he needs—the rush and thrill of the chase, the pressure to solve it and think of nothing else, not of Doms and submission and the tangled web of sex and _relationships._ John will understand if Sherlock doesn’t invite him to come along. He need this, needs room and space to _think._ Needs to, as much as he hates to admit it, feel _safe._

            He throws up a hand for a taxi and slams himself into the back, rattling off the address in a distant voice as his thoughts turn inward to the image of John standing before him, looking at him with hungry, hopeful eyes. _It’s all right, pet. You’ll like o—_

_Stop._

            Sherlock tightens his hands in his pockets until his nails dig into his palms and he relishes in the sting for the span of a few breaths. He’ll be fine. He’ll figure it out, just not right now. The case is what matters.

            John will understand.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, FINALLY the update is in! I'm sorry it took so long, guys, I was struggling really hard on this one- I started on volunteer work which has been taking up a lot of thinking time, and I had a mix of writer's block and uncertainty about where I wanted the chapter to end. I'm fairly happy with it now, though I'm a bit sorry I didn't get further. (But then that's just the tune of this fic in general, isn't it? :P)
> 
> Also, I had a bit of a question for you all: how are you feeling about this version of D/s verse? I know each writer puts their own little spin on it, and how "heavy" the verse gets can really vary between stories, but while writing this chapter I started to feel concerned that the relationship between Sherlock and John (and perhaps the universe in general) was getting a little too vanilla for the genre. Of course, I might just be worrying over nothing, but I wanted to get reader opinion on the verse and if/how it's working for you. In any event, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I hope to see you soon in an update of Lungs!

            In the end, Lestrade barely even has to glance in Sherlock’s direction before being able to tell that something is wrong. His eyebrows scrunch together and the corners of his mouth turn down and Sherlock shoots him a glare in an attempt to pre-emptively cut off any irritating questions. Of course, Lestrade being Lestrade, the gesture goes entirely ignored.

            “All right?” Lestrade calls out as Sherlock sweeps into the room. Sherlock disregards the question at first, sparing the barest of glances at the computer tech before sliding his heavy coat off of his shoulders and laying it across a chair.

            “Perfectly fine.” Sherlock determinedly keeps his eyes away from Lestrade’s and fixes instead on the row of flickering black and white monitors. “What’ve you got?”

            Lestrade watches him for a few more seconds but thankfully drops the issue, turning to point at spots on several screens. “We’ve managed to narrow down the tapes to just the moments where the victims are about to leave with their attacker,” he says. “So either to the back rooms or out the door, depending on where they’ve been found. Some of them go back multiple times in one night, but we think we might’ve found our killer. Take a look.”

            Sherlock leans in, peering at the screens. It takes him a moment to identify the victims, faces grainy and blurred as they are in the poor lighting and picture quality, but soon enough he’s able to dart his eyes from screen to screen, taking in the myriad of details about the woman they’re with.

            _Short, wearing frankly ridiculous heels to compensate; probably claims they’re part of her Dominant “image.” Average weight, no visible tattoos or piercings apart from her lobes, don’t discount the possibility of other, more adventurous ones as a means of submissive rebellion. Blonde—could be dyed. Wearing eye masks, a different one on each night. Does she really think that’s enough to hide her identity?_

            “So, what d’you think?” Lestrade asks him. “Enough to go on?”

            Enough to go on? It’s positively a glut of information. Almost too easy, really. Sherlock restrains the look of disappointment threatening to spread across his face and pulls his phone from his pocket. He’ll have to text John, tell him that his plans will have to be put on hold as they’re going to the club tonight to stake it out—

            He freezes.

            John. _Texting John._ He’s forgotten. He’d been so preoccupied with getting out and to Scotland Yard that he’d forgotten to let John know that he was even going in the first place. _Not good. Not good, not good, not—_

            “Sherlock?” Lestrade cranes his neck to look at him. “Everything all right?”

            It takes Sherlock a moment to respond.

            “Yeah, yeah, of course.” He knows he sounds distracted, not at all put together, but he isn’t quite sure of what he ought to do. He could, of course, just go home and inform John of his plans later—it would be easy enough to say that Lestrade had simply texted him pictures of the suspect and not let on that he’d left the flat at all, but that could be a potentially difficult lie to maintain. Lestrade could let something slip, John could ask to see Sherlock’s texts and realise that Sherlock had not actually received any photos after all, John might notice that absolutely nothing in the flat had been moved during his absence— _untenable._ But the other option—telling John that he’d flat out _forgotten_ one of his orders—seems just as dangerous. What sort of message is that sending? That he respects John so little that his orders make no impression at all upon his brain?

            _Unacceptable._

            “Sherlock.”

            Someone’s hand is covering his. Sherlock startles and blinks forcefully, raising his head to see Lestrade standing in front of him, face lined with concern. The tech, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen.

            “You’ve been staring at your phone for almost three minutes, now,” Lestrade says quietly. “What’s wrong?”

            He’s changed his question. No longer _are you all right_ but _I know something’s wrong, tell me._ Sherlock wants to bristle at the assumption, but Lestrade’s eyes have hardened and he knows that that response will get him nowhere. He brandishes his mobile phone, the screen dark but no less poignant. “I forgot to tell John where I was going.”

            Lestrade’s thumb brushes over his, a quiet sort of reward. “Did he say you had to?”

            “He said he’d like me to.” Sherlock touches the home button but doesn’t press it. “And he wrote it down on my list for today. I should have remembered.”

            “Why didn’t you?” Lestrade’s voice isn’t accusing, though—simply curious. Sherlock grimaces anyway.

            “I was… distracted.”

            “Distraught’s more like it.” Lestrade backs up a few paces. “Is that why you asked me for information on the case? What happened? And where’s John?”

            “John is at _work_ ,” Sherlock snaps, hackles rising. “I’m allowed to go places without him.”

            “I didn’t say you weren’t!” Lestrade runs a hand through his hair, looking back at the monitors distractedly for a moment. “It’s just… it’s the first time he’s given you that order, yeah? Dailies can be hard—people don’t like changing their habits. I don’t think he’ll hold it against you too badly if you just tell him now what happened.”

            Sherlock’s lip curls up into a scowl. “And how are my habits meant to change if I’m not being punished for forgetting? Without consequences, it’s all, ‘oh, do this if you feel like, Sherlock, but if you don’t, don’t worry, everything will be fine! Just try again next time!’” Lestrade flinches at his mocking tone, but doesn’t back down.

            “That’s exactly how it goes,” he insists. “I’ve had Dommes do that with me before—they won’t explicitly punish me, but the embarrassment of not being able to do what they wanted made me want to try harder the next time. I think it worked well enough.”

            “Yes, well enough that they all left you within a year of beginning the arrangement. I see how valuable that technique is.”

            “ _Sherlock_.” He’s pushed too far. Lestrade’s voice is calm but his face is stony, and Sherlock is struck with the momentary urge to lower his head despite the fact that Lestrade is not a Dom.

            “I’m just trying to _help_ you,” Lestrade goes on, voice rising a bit. “There’s no need to be an arse about it.”

            Sherlock says nothing. Perhaps there isn’t, but Lestrade is hardly an example of a winning formula for relationships. In order to please John, and therefore keep him, Sherlock needs to be disciplined and competent; in order for him to do _that_ , he needs to be able to comply with John’s demands the first time around. Thus, if he fails, John needs to punish him, and properly. (His punishment two nights ago had been bizarre, to say the least; he’d expected John to whip him, or at least spank him if he’d been hesitant, but instead John had opted to practically lie on top of him and _whisper_ things at him. True, there had been some almost-pain administered, and rather a lot of fear—he’d been afraid for the first several minutes that John was about to rip off his clothes and claim his Dominance in the basest of ways right there on the floor—but as far as punishments go, it had been downright lenient. Almost pleasant. He can’t expect John to go that easy on him again—he _shouldn’t._ Sherlock won’t learn otherwise.)

            As his silence continues, Lestrade lets out a sound somewhere between a huff and a sigh.

            “Either text him or don’t, then,” he says brusquely. “Your Dom, your choice and all that. But I really think it’d go a whole lot better if you just sat down and _talked_ to John about this.” When Sherlock still doesn’t reply, Lestrade shakes his head and turns away.

            “Text me if you go out to the club tonight.” The order is dismissive; Lestrade doesn’t expect to be obeyed, he’s just using it in lieu of a goodbye. Sherlock’s jaw clenches, but he remains silent as he turns and storms out of the room, swiping his coat off of the chair as he passes.

 

* * *

 

_New lead on the case: Lestrade has footage of the murderer. Will be going out tonight to stake out club. Coming with? SH_

            Sherlock paces agitatedly down the length of the flat as he waits for John’s reply, phone clasped tightly between his palms. He’s taken off his shoes so that he doesn’t irritate Mrs Hudson with the constant pounding of his heels against the floorboards, but he has to admit that the lack of a sturdy _thud_ is making it much more difficult for him to exorcise his tension.

            At last his phone pings, after almost a ten minute wait, and Sherlock swipes viciously across the lock screen.

            _Of course I’ll come, if you want me to. Should I try and get out early to get ready?_

            Again, that stab of shame. Sherlock growls and types out his reply. _No need. We won’t be leaving until at least nine. SH_

            John’s response comes much more quickly this time: _All right. Sounds great. See you in a few hours._ And that’s that. No questions, no pointed inquiries about how Sherlock is coming along with his orders—Sherlock could probably get them all the way to the club tonight before it even occurred to John to ask him how he’d gotten his information.

            Sherlock grits his teeth.

            _John, I’ve disobeyed you. SH_

            He waits. He knows that John probably won’t—can’t—respond right away, but that doesn’t stop him from staring avidly at his screen, thumbnail sliding distractedly up and down the side of the case.

            His phone pings again.

            _Oh? What happened?_

            What _happened_. Sherlock scoffs. _*I* neglected to inform you that I’d left the flat. I went to see Lestrade at Scotland Yard. SH_

            His phone indicates that John is typing. Sherlock waits rather than turning the screen off.

            _How long ago was that?_

_Approximately two hours. I apologise for not telling you before now. SH_

_Why didn’t you?_

Sherlock hesitates. _I was… distracted. I was excited by the prospect of a lead and didn’t realise that I’d forgotten. I am sorry. SH_

            He waits, watching the little ellipsis blink across his screen. Surely John can tell that he’s lying; it’s a textbook excuse, and not even a creative one at that. Besides, ignorance of the law (or forgetting it) is not an excuse to commit a crime.

            But then the text comes in, and Sherlock reads it, and his shoulders slump in a mixture of disappointment and self-disgust.

_I believe you. Thank you for telling me._

            He’s gotten away with it. John won’t pursue the issue. Perhaps, in one sense, this could be seen as a positive—Lestrade’s comment about shame and motivation trickles back to him, ridiculous though it had been—but Sherlock takes no comfort in that. He’s deceived his Dom, and he’s not going to be punished for it. That’s _wrong._ But he can’t come clean about this part—that would mean telling John _why_ he lied, _why_ he was upset by what he said at breakfast, and then John will know. John isn’t allowed to know.

            He isn’t allowed to punish himself. He knows that. John had made it very clear with his punishment, strange as it had been, and despite the urge to set things right, Sherlock will do his best not to hurt himself again. But what about denying himself pleasure?

            Sherlock’s stomach clenches at the thought; he’d been so looking forward to scening with John when he got home, perhaps squeezing in a quick one before going out to the club. But that’s off-limits now. He doesn’t deserve subspace after what he’s done. And it’ll be easy enough to hide from John—he’ll just think that Sherlock’s too focused on the work to settle down and submit. It should work.

            Sherlock won’t like it, but that’s precisely the point, isn’t it.

 

* * *

 

            They’re going to the club tonight.

            John thinks he’s done a fairly good job of keeping his mind on his work all day, despite Sherlock’s text, but the truth of it is that his blood has been singing with low-level adrenaline ever since he put his phone down, and now that the clock’s struck five he’s out of his office like a shot, heading towards the entrance of the hospital with no difficulty at all from his leg.

            He’s excited. He knows it’s not quite proper, getting this worked up over the chance to apprehend a serial killer, but he knows it’s something that Sherlock enjoys, and he’s looking forward to watching his sub’s amazing talents in action yet again.

            What are they going to _do_ once they’re inside the club, though? John manages to find a spot on the crowded Tube car, pressed up against the window and a group of young women, and looks down at his shoes in thought as he grabs onto a bar. He doubts they’re going to rush in there, find the woman immediately, and arrest her—being too obvious about it would probably lead to her escaping out the back, somehow—and besides, they don’t even know if she’ll show tonight.

            John’s stomach skips a bit at the thought of spending multiple nights at a club with Sherlock. He knows that they won’t be able to be too blatant about their roles; it’s meant to be a club for gay Dominants, after all, and if anyone catches on to the fact that Sherlock is a sub, there goes the investigation. But the idle question of _what if_ turns over and over in his mind, and he lets himself daydream, rocking back and forth with the motion of the train.

            _Sherlock, collared and dressed in nothing but a leather harness—_ no, John corrects himself. He wouldn’t enjoy that; too shy, too vulnerable around strangers. _Dressed in one of his suits, then, fitted and gorgeous with the flattering purple shirt, or maybe a white one for the stark contrast and to compliment his skin. He would wear John’s collar, and maybe a leash if he was comfortable, being led around the club to show off his obedience and how well he could heel and serve. Kneeling at John’s feet as John watches other couples scene, leaning his head against John’s leg and watching out for anything that he would want John to do to him once they returned home._

_Perhaps they would scene, if Sherlock was willing—something with rope, colourful and complicated that would take hours of concentration and strength to complete but that would look beautiful when finished, something that would cradle Sherlock and tell him he was safe while John got to show off his skill and prowess and broadcast to other Doms: this is my sub, and he trusts me. I have earned it. My sub is beautiful and strong and brave, but you cannot have him. I have chosen him, and he is mine, and I am proud of him. He is perfect._

            A bit sentimental, and with a lot more Dominant posturing than John’s usually comfortable with, but it’s hard to rein in his thoughts. Sherlock stimulates all sorts of instincts in him that he hasn’t felt in such a long time, and the desire to proclaim to everyone that Sherlock is his is strong. He knows not to act on it, however. Sherlock values his independence, and his ability to blend in as a Dominant as a result, and John will not take that away from him. The automated voice informs him that his stop is coming up next, so John disengages from the bar and the women and shuffles his way towards the door.

            It’s just barely turned 5:45 as he exits the Tube station and turns onto Baker Street. That means they’ve got at least a few hours before they have to go to the club, and John’s step lightens as he thinks about what he and Sherlock can get up to in that time. Of course, priority will be given over to the work—Sherlock will undoubtedly have to prepare at least a little for tonight—but they could probably work in a half-hour somewhere to sit together. The idea sends a pleasant warmth spreading throughout John’s chest; he knows how starved Sherlock has been for subspace, what with his self-denial and then refusal to submit properly to Molly. He’d told John that it had been about two months since he’d last submitted, but privately John thinks it’s been much longer—perhaps even years—since Sherlock has felt properly satisfied. If he can help with that, even a little… his chest aches at the thought.

            His sub. His poor, tired, aching, exhausted sub. Trying so hard to be brave and self-sufficient, and John is proud of him, he really is, but tonight he wants to help Sherlock relax. He deserves it.

            Silence greets him as he opens the door to 221. The door to Mrs Hudson’s flat is closed, and the one upstairs must be as well, since there’s no light reflecting down the staircase. That’s not so strange; even though John tends to leave it open during the day, Sherlock seems the type to prefer more privacy. John doesn’t mind. He begins to climb, slipping his arms out of his coat as he goes. He can’t hear the sound of music, or water running, or even the telly; idly, he wonders what Sherlock’s been doing with himself all afternoon. Reading? Unpacking?

            He opens the door of the flat and walks into a dark sitting room. Light filters in through the curtains, illuminating a few dust motes in the air, but it’s not quite enough to properly see by. John waits a moment for his eyes to adjust, then hangs up his coat quietly in case Sherlock’s decided to take a nap.

            “Sherlock?” he whispers. He waits a few seconds, ears pricked for a response, but nothing comes. Well, that’s fine. If he’s sleeping, John can put together a quick dinner for them before they head out to the club. Perhaps pasta. He thinks they’ve still got some chicken left in the freezer.

            He makes his way into the kitchen and then flicks on the light, glancing back into the sitting room as he does so. There is Sherlock, on the couch just as John had expected— except rather than lying down in slumber he’s sitting hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers placed as if in prayer in front of his mouth. His eyes are closed.

            What is he doing? He can’t be sleeping, sitting like that, can he? John abandons the kitchen and takes a few steps into the sitting room again, studying Sherlock’s face curiously. His brows are furrowed tightly, wrinkling the space above the bridge of his nose, and behind his eyelids, John can see movement. Is he dreaming…? If he is, it can’t be about anything pleasant. Sherlock’s mouth is pulled into a lopsided frown, and as John watches, his head twitches to the side and a soft noise escapes his throat, though whether it’s from frustration or sadness, John can’t tell.

            Well, that’s enough of that. John kneels down carefully on top of the coffee table and presses a gentle hand to the side of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s skin is soft and warm, and his head tilts into the touch as John lets his thumb brush slowly back and forth across a sharp cheekbone and tangles his fingertips in the hair behind his ear.

            “Hey there,” he whispers. “Wake up, now, Sherlock, it’s okay.”

            Sherlock murmurs something inaudible in response and tilts his head further until John could reasonably say that he’s offering his neck. A tingle of excitement flashes through him—he loves seeing Sherlock so pliant—but before he can reach out to touch the pale skin, Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he pulls away, staring at John in a mix of embarrassment and fear.

            “You’re home,” he says after a moment of tense silence. John licks his lips, clears his throat, nods.

            “Yeah, I am. Just got in.” It’s not hard to realise that he’s overstepped. His sub or not, Sherlock had looked like he’d been asleep, or at the very least deep in thought, and initiating touch of that kind while not fully conscious, especially to a sub with Sherlock’s background, was probably not a welcome gesture. Stupid. “Sorry, I was just about to go make dinner, but then I saw you sitting out here. Are you all right?”

            “Fine.” Sherlock leans back into the couch, fingers steepling once more in front of his face. “Thinking.”

            Ah. “About the case?” John eases himself off of the coffee table and back into a standing position. “You said we were going out tonight.”

            “Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes are unfocused, staring off past John and into the air somewhere above his left shoulder. “Strategizing.”

            John waits, but Sherlock does not provide any more information. In fact, he no longer seems to even be aware that John is still in the room with him and so, after a moment of hesitation, John turns and leaves to go back to the kitchen.

            He feels a bit… let down, to say the least. Oh, he knows that Sherlock is just busy with the case, and he’s certainly not going to get _angry_ at Sherlock for reacting poorly to his touch, but… well, he’d been looking forward to some kind of warmth upon returning home. He’d seen the desire in Sherlock’s eyes that morning, the longing to submit; he’d _wanted_ to scene with John. But now…

            John shakes his head. He’s being ridiculous. Sherlock’s perfectly entitled to change his mind, and it’s not like he doesn’t have a good excuse. Saving lives is much more important than any little fantasy of John’s; it’s more important than either of them. John can wait until the investigation’s over if he has to.

            Whether Sherlock can, however…

            John opens up the freezer and takes out the chicken to defrost, putting it in the microwave with a frown on his face.

            He’s worried about Sherlock. Case or no case, he needs to submit, and soon. His behaviour—the self-harm, the bouncing in and out of subspace, how hard he falls when he does go down—it’s all worrying, and John really thinks he needs to be put under, as a pet, before things get any worse.

            He’s been anxious to bring up the topic. Sherlock’s reluctance is obvious, however, especially now that John can see their morning-after conversation for what it was. Sherlock doesn’t want John to know that he’s a pet, and seems willing to do almost anything to keep him in the dark. It hurts John to think about. He can’t imagine what it must be like, going through every day craving something but not allowing yourself to pursue it. What could he compare it to? Hunger? Thirst? He can’t liken it to his own need to Dominate: Sherlock is submitting, more or less, but he’s cutting himself off before he goes too far. Before he even gets enough.

            The microwave beeps, knocking him out of his thoughts. With numb, distracted motions, John goes about setting up the saucepans, one for water, one for sauce. Sherlock still hasn’t moved from the sofa.

            What can he do to let Sherlock know that it’s safe to come out as a pet? John’s done some research, but he’d hardly call himself an expert. He doesn’t know what sorts of scenes would resonate best with Sherlock, what sorts of protocol to establish—if they were communicating properly about it, maybe he could ask Sherlock to guide him as he found his footing, but this way… John’s flying blind.

            Part of him is tempted to bring something up while they’re out at the club. Sherlock would have more leeway there, and might feel less vulnerable if he thinks he’s allowed to be aggressive. John vetoes the idea almost immediately, however; he hardly has any ideas for scenes in which the pet is a submissive—he hasn’t the faintest idea of what he’d do with a pet that wanted to be Dominant.

            And what type of animal is Sherlock, anyway? John had read online that that sort of thing was important when deciding what type of scene a pet needed. Puppies, for instance, would need more pure romp time—things like fetch or tug of war or wrestling, while kittens could ask to be spoiled, cuddled, groomed, or simply left to their own devices, depending on how affectionate they wanted to be. In Sherlock’s case, John isn’t particularly worried; he’s tended to be rather loving in their scenes so far, and he doubts that that’s about to change. But is Sherlock actually a cat?

            John thinks so. There’s the purring from one of their earlier scenes to think about, and then the “kiss” Sherlock had given him after their first day of real scening. Not wet and slobbery like a dog’s kiss, but soft and tentative, with just the tip of his tongue.

            The memory of the sensation heats his cheeks a bit, but he pushes the thoughts forcibly away. It’s one thing to get aroused when your partner traces their lips and tongue across your skin, another thing entirely when it’s your cat doing it. There’s a line to be drawn, here, and John is determined to keep on the right side of it. Sherlock hadn’t shown any indication that he’d meant for the touch to become seductive; he’d done it while exhausted, overwhelmed with ‘space and with his guard down. Until he says otherwise, John is going to assume that sex and petspace are to be kept separate.

            “John?”

            John turns around at the quiet voice to see Sherlock standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He seems a bit tired, or perhaps hesitant; his shoulders are hunched slightly, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and he’s looking up at John through his eyelashes.

            No, not tired, John realises. He’s trying to be _enticing_.

            “I’ve finished thinking on the case, at least for now,” Sherlock continues when John doesn’t respond. His eyes flicker back and forth, studying John’s face. “If you needed me.”

            John takes in a deep breath through his nose. _If you needed me._ As if Sherlock’s a toy that John can just use whenever he likes. He turns away to pour the pasta into the boiling water and then fiddles with the heat. Giving himself time. “Needed you for what?”

            _Make him spell it out. Make him realise how ridiculous and objectifying that statement is._

            There’s only silence from Sherlock for a moment. Then—

            “This morning.” He sounds so hesitant, so obviously _reluctant_ , that John has to turn back around to face him, forehead creased in concern. “You were about to write an extra order on my list for the day, but you erased it before you could finish. Now you’ve just come home from work and are obviously interested in… _something_ , but I rejected you in favour of the case. I realise you’ve said that you won’t interfere with my work with Lestrade, but now I’m done, as I’ve said, and therefore I am… ready for anything you might have had planned.” Sherlock’s mouth is tight as he finishes, however, and the tension thrumming through his body is not the kind that John would normally identify as eager, or even willing. Instead he looks as though he’s expecting to suffer through an ordeal, and that makes it incredibly easy for John to say what he does next.

            “No.”

            Sherlock’s eyes widen, then narrow. “No? Why not?”

            “Because you don’t want it,” John says matter-of-factly. “You’re offering to submit because you think that I need it, and while that is very kind of you in theory, the way you’re going about it is all wrong. I don’t want you to martyr yourself for me, Sherlock. If there’s something else you’d rather be doing, I’m not going to get mad at you.”

            “But.” Sherlock’s mouth twists to the side. “Surely you’ve got. _Needs._ ”

            “As do you,” John says calmly. “And I’m perfectly willing to take care of them, if you’ll tell me what they are. But I don’t want to do anything to you if you’re just going to be gritting your teeth the entire time. You won’t enjoy it, and therefore neither will I.”

            Sherlock says nothing for a long moment, lower lip caught pensively between his teeth. Eventually the kitchen timer beeps, and John turns to switch off the heat under the saucepans and dump out the water from the pasta pot.

            He almost drops it when he turns back around to see Sherlock kneeling on the kitchen lino in front of him.

            “I want to serve you, John,” Sherlock says before John can even open his mouth. “I know you think that I’m just playacting, but I’m not, I _swear._ ” He holds out a hand; even from this distance, John can see that it’s trembling. “I need it—I _want_ it, John. If it makes you feel better, order me to stop if you think I’m not enjoying it, but may I at least try?”

            His eyes are bright, earnest, burning into John’s with a quiet intensity that sets something simmering deep within John’s chest. He doesn’t quite trust it; less tricky subs than Sherlock have lied to John about this before, and Sherlock is an accomplished manipulator. Still, he’s not lying about the biological need, and John doesn’t want to deprive him just to prove a point.

            Well. He’s still the Dom, isn’t he?

            John jerks his head towards the kitchen drawers. “Get a placemat and set it on the chair next to mine,” he orders. “You’re going to sit on the floor next to me and eat at least half a plate before we leave tonight. _No_ excuses, Sherlock,” he adds when Sherlock opens his mouth to argue. “You’re having dinner and that’s final. Now move.”

            Sherlock does, scooting around John at the stove to reach into the drawers on the left of the hob. John promptly busies himself with returning the pot to its burner, dumping in a bit of oil to stir it around in. The sauce has bubbled a bit more than he’d like, but it’s still edible and hardly burnt. John glances over his shoulder at Sherlock, who is now sitting on his haunches on the floor, looking up at John with a bewildered expression.

            John knows that Sherlock is expecting much rougher treatment than this. Demands for sex, humiliating orders, violent punishments; all things that he’s likely experienced in his relationships with other Doms. It’s clear that he thinks that’s what submitting _is_ , really, and the thought tugs at John’s heart painfully. The thought that Sherlock could think him capable of wanting those things, more so. But that’s not what their relationship is, nor is it what John wants it to be. He wants Sherlock to trust him, to feel safe with him, to come to him willingly and to not be afraid when John comes to him.

            But in order to get there, they still have a long way to go.

            “Well, come on up, then,” he says encouragingly. “Come and fill your plate. And while we’re eating, you can tell me all about your plan for the club, all right? I want to hear about it.”

            A light comes back on behind Sherlock’s eyes at that, and John smiles inwardly as Sherlock rises and makes his way over to the stove, words already tumbling out over each other as to where they’re going, why, why it makes perfect sense to go out even though it’s a Wednesday night, and what they both ought to wear to best entice their killer. It’s hardly normal, John muses, his sub chattering away excitedly without a hint of deferential language while his Dom sits in amused silence above him, but that’s not the point. They’re taking baby steps into this relationship, together: Sherlock, learning how to trust and feel confident in his submission again, and John, learning how to provide and care for this wonderful, fantastic, and _fascinating_ sub that he’s met—god, hardly more than a week ago.

            They might have a long road ahead of them, but John’s more than content to sit back and see where it leads.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! So this chapter was a bit of a struggle to write, and even more of a struggle to end- the scene just wanted to keep going on and on, but I wanted to finally post something for you all and so I gave it a cutoff point. I'm fairly proud with how it came out, despite some bumps and bruises, and I hope that you all like it too. :)
> 
> After this chapter, I'm going to do some basic planning for Lungs as usual, but I've also been given a fic commission that I want to start work on. As a result, the next chapter of Lungs, and therefore the next chapter of this, might get pushed back a bit. I'll keep you guys updated on my profile and my twitter on where I am.
> 
> Hope to see you guys soon, and hope you enjoy the chapter!

            Sherlock ends up wearing the deep blue shirt he’d worn out to Angelo’s for his and John’s first date, paired with tight black jeans that he knows will draw attention from the other clubgoers. He forgoes the eyeliner this time, however; it’s a submissive touch, one that did its job in piquing John’s interest but would be a dead giveaway at this type of club. He settles for applying some product to his curls instead, ruffling and poking at them until they look artfully tousled and John’s tongue is sticking out just slightly from between his pale pink lips.

            John has prepared himself as well, though not in such an alluring way as Sherlock; he’s put on a green and white plaid button-up shirt, fastened all of its buttons and turned back his cuffs to bare his wrists. His jeans aren’t form-fitting and his shoes are a bit scuffed, but Sherlock knows he’ll still turn a few heads simply from his military bearing and firm, stern voice.

            Fitting, he supposes wryly. John, the authentic article with practically no trimmings required to look the part, and himself, an imposter, relying on sex appeal rather than any real Dominant leanings to pass.

            _Fucking tease._

            “Remind me,” John says, interrupting his thoughts. “What does she look like, this person we’re looking for?”

            “Blonde,” Sherlock replies. He turns on the taps to wash the tacky sensation of the cream off of his hands. “Short, average weight, pierced ears. She’ll probably be wearing an eyemask. Check for heels as well.”

            “And you’re sure she’ll come up to one of us?”

            “Well, that depends on you, now doesn’t it?” Sherlock glances back at John. “I know it goes against your nature, but you’ll have to be a bit of an arsehole to catch her attention. Sidle up to the bar, ingratiate yourself with some of the locals and make sure to talk loudly and drunkenly about how pathetically annoying submissives are. She’ll home right in.”

            John’s mouth pulls to the side. “You know I don’t think—”

            “I won’t be insulted by anything you say, John, you needn’t worry. I’ll be on the other side of the bar doing the exact same thing. She’ll have to hear one of us eventually.”

            “If she’s even there tonight.” John glances away down the hall, then back at Sherlock. There are bite mark indentations on his lip. “And what do we do if she doesn’t show? Just spend all night making arses of ourselves?”

            Sherlock pauses in the act of towelling off his hands. There hadn’t been any particular demand in John’s voice, nor even an outright desire, but… John wants something. He wants something, but doesn’t feel comfortable asking Sherlock for it.

            _Ah._

            “If something you see catches your eye, we could try it out when we return home for the night,” he offers lightly. “But while we’re there, I’d prefer to stay focused on the work, if you didn’t mind.”

            John’s eyebrows shoot up at his first sentence, then crease together for the second.

            “Yeah, sure, that’s fine,” he replies. “I wasn’t… how long were you planning on staying, then?”

            Sherlock casts one more glance back at himself in the mirror, then leaves the bathroom through the door connected to his bedroom. He needs socks, and then a sensible pair of shoes. (Attractive, but sturdy; something Dom-like. Something suitable for running, just in case.) “A few hours, at most. Don’t want to throw the night away for no good reason, not when you’ve got work in the morning. If we haven’t caught sight of her by two, we can leave.”

            John laughs a bit wryly at that as he follows him in. “Flattered by the consideration, but I think catching a serial killer’s just a bit more important than my being well rested for my job. Don’t send us home on my account.”

            _Oh, John._ What Sherlock would have given to have heard any of his former Doms make anything resembling that statement. He turns to look back at John, leaning against the wall by the door, and fights the urge to drop heavily to his knees. He wants to lower his head to the floor, wants to lay himself tamely at John’s feet.

            _Careful, now._

            “As you like,” he says. He aims for a nonchalant tone, but with the way John’s eyes soften at him, he knows that he’s failed. Fortunately, he can’t find it within him to care. “The night could last ten minutes or six hours, then, depending on how things go. Do you trust my judgment?”

John grins at him. “Absolutely.”

 -

            Despite the excitement that getting ready had produced in him, Sherlock’s stomach feels twisted in knots by the time they’ve hailed and climbed inside a cab outside of Baker Street. It’s not embarrassment at where they’re going; he rattles off the address to the driver as he always does and neither John nor the cabbie bat an eye at where they’re going. It’s not even the nagging worry in the back of his mind that the killer might not have decided to come tonight; John doesn’t mind his work, even seems to enjoy it. There’s little reason to worry that he would object to another night’s stakeout.

            No. The _problem,_ the one that he’d stupidly forgotten about until just this very moment, is _just what is he going to do with John_ once they arrive?

            He’s practiced enough at playing Dom—that’s his default setting when he’s out and about without a Dom of his own around, and hardly anyone has ever caught him, and never recently. But he’s never actually interacted with a Dom he cared about impressing whilst also trying to be a Dom himself.

            How will John react to that? To Sherlock being brusque, dismissive, even possibly giving John orders of _his own?_ He’s been amenable enough so far to Sherlock giving him instructions when it relates to the work, but here they’re going to be undercover. Everyone will be looking at them as though they’re two Doms fighting for control of one another in ridiculous erotic dominance battles. It’ll be John’s image, his reputation as a Dom at stake if he fails to either control Sherlock or keep himself from being dominated.

            Sherlock chews on his lower lip as he thinks it over, glancing over to the other side of the cab to look at John. Perhaps they could work something out? After all, Sherlock’s at a bit of a disadvantage here anyway; anything John tells him to do will be difficult to near-impossible to disobey, depending on how it’s being said. Maybe, if John gave him an overriding order _now—_

            “Tell me what you’re thinking,” John says without turning around. Sherlock frowns in surprise. Had he been that obvious?

            “You’re fidgeting so much I can feel it over here.” John does turn his head, then, and while there’s a twinkle of playful teasing in his eye, he also extends a hand to rub soothingly at the back of Sherlock’s neck. “What’s the matter?”

            Sherlock allows himself to lean into the touch, but only for a few seconds before pulling away again. “John, um. While we’re in the club, you ought to know—or you ought to be _aware_ , rather—I… may not be on my best behaviour.”

            John frowns. “What does that mean?”

            Sherlock’s mouth twists. “…Orders. I might have to give you some, to maintain the fiction that I’m a Dom. You’re under no compunction to follow them, you understand, and in fact you probably _shouldn’t_ , since it’d be a bit suspicious if you did—and you know that I won’t really mean them, anyway, but I do have to at least _try_ and look the part so they—”

            “Sherlock,” John interrupts. “Sherlock, it’s fine. I understand. I won’t get mad.” He pauses, then, and looks at Sherlock contemplatively. “You do know that I’m not expecting you to follow all of mine, either, while we’re there?”

            Oh, good, John follows.

            “I’d assumed,” Sherlock says, relieved, “but I’d still like for you to order it, if you wouldn’t mind. Just so I’ve got something to fall back on.”

            John frowns again. “Sorry, fall back on?”

            Or perhaps not. Sherlock sighs. “Despite your much-appreciated sentiment, John, my body won’t be able to recognise the difference once we’re inside the club. Without an official order, it’ll just keep carrying on as though everything is to be obeyed indiscriminately, and we can’t have that if I’m to maintain any semblance of a disguise while we’re there.”

            John’s stare hasn’t lessened, but now it’s tinged with a hint of concern.

            “Sherlock,” he says slowly, “you _are_ aware that you can disobey orders, aren’t you? That you’re not… I dunno, _biologically programmed_ to listen to every order thrown your way?”

            Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Yes, obviously, _some_ level of disobedience is possible, but the overwhelming majority of evidence suggests that the submissive impulse is excruciatingly difficult to resist. Hence why I need you to give me an overriding order _now_ so that I can more easily ignore your and other orders later.”

            John’s looking at him as though he’s gone mad. “The ‘overwhelming majority?’ No, don’t bother.” He looks away, out the window, sighs, then turns back. His forehead is lined, and Sherlock is suddenly struck with the sinking feeling that he’s said something terribly wrong yet again. John is disappointed, because of him.

            “We’ll discuss this later, okay?” John tells him. “This is important, and I want to give it the time it deserves when you’re not distracted with work. But yeah, all right, I’ll give you the order for now. You’re not to feel obligated to follow any orders given to you tonight, whether it’s from me or from anybody else. Does that work?”

            “Splendidly, John, thank you.” It’s a strange mix of freedom and regret working its way through his stomach, however—released from his duties as a sub for the night, he is free to focus on the case as he pleases, free to direct John and do as he likes while they work. Yet there’s also the curious sensation of being cut off, untethered; he isn’t to listen to John’s orders anymore, isn’t to care if John is being pleased, and the small hole that forms in his chest in response feels cold and empty and unpleasant.

            It feels like failure.

            He forces himself to ignore it, however, and turns to stare blankly out the window as he waits for them to arrive.

 -

            They split up upon entering the club, John to the bar for socialising, and Sherlock to the scene floor to scout out the crowd. An undercurrent of deep bass music thrums through the air, powerful enough to rumble lightly within his skull and vibrate his teeth, but not loud or intelligible enough to distract him from his thoughts. He cannot make out any words, only a rhythm that seems to lend itself perfectly to the myriad of activities taking place right before his eyes.

            Despite it being only a Wednesday evening, there are a fair number of patrons at the club; lines have formed at both of the two whipping stations, and Sherlock watches dispassionately as a female Dom flogs a male—probably her partner—who snarls and tugs at his bonds with every strike. Her technique is impressive enough; the bruises forming on her “submissive” are even and scattered pleasingly across his back and bare arse, and an electric tingle of sympathetic desire flutters down Sherlock’s spine. He shakes it away with a growl, however, and moves on.

            One corner of the club seems to be devoted entirely to humiliation and service; Doms dressed in revealing clothing mill about serving their partners drinks from the bar or contorting themselves into bizarre positions to serve as human furniture. Utterly unhelpful; their suspect enjoys _blood play_ , for god’s sake. Sherlock scowls and continues searching.

            There’s what appears to be a wrestling floor in another corner, where a crowd has gathered around to watch two Doms grapple with each other. At first Sherlock cannot tell what the aim of the practice is, aside from a way to release some pent-up tension, but then a cheer rises from the crowd and he notices that one of the two Doms has managed to get a hand on the back of his opponent’s head and pulled to expose their neck. Sherlock’s gaze flicks away from the combatants—both male, irrelevant—and proceeds to examine the crowd (too tall, too short, wrong hair colour, too many piercings). He growls under his breath in frustration and turns around to head back to the bar. Useless, utterly useless.

            His phone vibrates shortly after he takes his seat, and surreptitiously he glances up at John who is nursing a drink on the other side of the bar and smiling politely at the Dom sitting next to him. Sherlock ignores the drink menu the bartender places in front of him and instead takes out his phone to look at the text.

            _You look bored out of your mind. Didn’t show?_

Sherlock snorts. _Not yet. Could be in one of the private rooms or might still be en route. Willing to wait an hour if you are. SH_

_No problem._ John’s partner doesn’t seem to mind his texting and proceeds to make a joke that Sherlock cannot hear, but one that John obviously can; his jaw clenches almost imperceptibly and his cheeks flush. A dirty joke, then, something that’s offended John’s sensibilities, and Sherlock watches, concerned for a moment that John will say something and blow their cover. But John, dependable John, brushes it off and replies something with a wide, albeit forced, smile, and the other Dom laughs again, clapping him weightily on the back.

            Sherlock’s phone vibrates once more.

            _Would you be interested in doing something else to pass the time? I know you wanted us to make friends at the bar, but if I have to sit next to this arsehole for one more minute I think I’m going to deck him._

            Sherlock bites the inside of his lip as he thinks over his options. On one hand, there’s not too much of a risk in accepting; even though their killer hasn’t shown a preference for threesomes thus far, she can hardly be put off if she isn’t even on the floor, now can she? But then there’s the very real danger that scening will push Sherlock down into subspace—the chemicals that make literal and figurative head-butting so appealing to Doms just aren’t present in him. What if his body decides to respond with a loss of control, despite John’s order to ignore commands? Worst-case scenario, he could try passing off as a switch, but it’s debateable if that will work, and then they’ll have lost any chance they’d had to stalk the killer.

            Cautiously, Sherlock types out his message. _What did you have in mind? SH_

            All of these concerns aside, he knows that John is getting restless. Since the very first date they’d been on, John has been interested in kissing him—interested in more, as well, but Sherlock’s seen John thoughtfully eyeing his lips and he knows what that means. A proposition is coming, or will have to be offered, and soon. It’s not fair to John to make him wait much longer than this.

            His stomach hurts.

            _Well I’m obviously not gonna wrestle you._ Sherlock can practically hear John’s snort of derision for the idea. _Bondage sound good? All you’d have to do is stand there, so you could still keep a lookout, if you wanted._

            Well, that’s tame enough. And it’s an activity that both of them have expressed interest in and that Sherlock can generally stay aware during. It doesn’t take long for Sherlock to type back an affirmative.

            _Shall I approach you or vice versa? SH_

            _Let me do it. I’d like to pretend I could pick you up in a bar. ;)_

            Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the message but lets it stand and returns his phone to his pocket. A minute later, John saunters around the edge of the bar and sidles up to lean his hip against the stool next to Sherlock.

            “Care to play, gorgeous?” John’s grin is equal parts cocky and mischievous, and it’s only the utter ridiculousness of it all that saves John from a withering glare. As it is, Sherlock suppresses his own smile and casts an appraising glance over John’s body.

            “I’m listening.”

            “Rope,” John says. “Me tying you up. Suspension?”

            “No.” Sherlock ignores the pang in his chest that accompanies the disappointment blooming on John’s face. “Restraint or shibari, but I won’t be hung. Is that acceptable?”

            John recovers quickly. “Yeah, sure. Restraint, then. You coming?” He nods his head towards the rigging area, and Sherlock slips off his stool to follow him with his heart pounding heavily in his chest.

            It’s been a while since he’s felt the touch of rope. He’d never been comfortable enough with any of his short-term Doms to let them do much more than handcuff him, and Molly has never restrained him, save for his punishments in front of the hospital. On occasion, while he was in his old flat, he would spend evenings tying his legs together in intricate knots in order to amuse himself, but the thrill of tying oneself up fades very quickly, and so he’d eventually stopped bothering.

            Now, though, it’s John who’s going to be tying him, and that opens up a whole host of new possibilities.

            “Colour?” the woman attendant asks them as they approach. John looks Sherlock up and down and then replies, “Blue. Dark blue.” Sherlock’s cheeks grow warm, but he says nothing.

            The woman produces several lengths of deep blue rope, for which John thanks her kindly, and then the two of them proceed to an unclaimed section of the floor to begin.

            “Kneel,” John says. It doesn’t quite sound like an order—almost as if John’s just testing the word out in his mouth—but Sherlock obeys anyway. Slowly, he lowers himself first to one knee and then the other, then looks up expectantly at John from his spot on the floor.

            “I think I’m going to want you on your side,” John tells him, still in that calm, almost detached voice. “So hands out in front of you.”

            For a fraction of a second, Sherlock thinks about disobeying. John’s being entirely too expectant about this, too confident that his orders will be followed without question. Even discounting the simple fact that as a “gay” Dominant, John should be imbuing his orders with much more force than usual, should perhaps even be threatening some sort of punishment if Sherlock does not comply, it’s tempting to fight back for once, to simply tell John _no,_ he’s not interested in following his orders this time. Except—

            Except that’s not true.

            No matter how he acts out in public, Sherlock is and always will be a submissive. _John’s_ submissive. And _as_ John’s submissive, it’s his duty to follow John’s orders and do his best to please John, no matter what he himself wants.

            “Sherlock?”

            He was selfish, asking John to free him from his compulsion to obey. Foolish, as well—he ought to have known that it wasn’t possible. _Stupid_ sub.

            “Sherlock.” John’s voice hardens. “Wrists, now.”

            Sherlock complies. He has to.

            He watches silently, almost detachedly as John binds him, blue laid over white like fine, delicate china. His wrists are brought together, then his forearms, and eventually John lays a hand on his shoulder, directing him downwards.

            “It’s all right,” he whispers as Sherlock pulls against his bonds. “You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you. Just lie down on your side. That’s it. You’re safe.”

            He cannot hear anything. Nothing except the distant thud of his heartbeat, pounding in time with the thud of the music that he knows exists but can no longer distinguish from everything going on inside of him. John’s voice washes over him like a wave, the rope around his wrists tight, but comforting in its tightness. It secures him, guides him. This is where John wants him to be. This is where he feels safe.

            He listens dispassionately as John binds his ankles, his calves. His legs are rendered immobile, but he cannot bring himself to care. What use does he have for walking? It’s not as though he needs his feet, not as though he could use them if he tried. His knees are all he needs, just enough to let him scamper across the floor in pursuit of Master, a ball, a toy. His tail would be thrashing in restless anticipation if he had one, his ears twitching uselessly on his head. When will Master set him free? He loves being bound, normally, but tonight the desire to serve Master is strong, and he cannot do that if Master does not untie him. Not unless Master just wants to use his mouth—Sherlock doesn’t like that, usually, but if Master wants—

            If Master wants…

            “Stop,” Sherlock gasps.

            The world is thrown suddenly, violently, back into colour and sound; the music overhead, which had been so muted as Sherlock had fell, now flares so loud as to almost be unbearable; the texture of the rope, pleasantly soft at first, now chafes and burns as Sherlock struggles to get free; John’s hand retreats from Sherlock’s thigh as though he’d been electrocuted.

            “What’s wrong?” he asks. “D’you need me to untie you?”

            Sherlock’s body shudders; somewhere within that uncontrolled motion, he finds the coordination to nod, and John immediately begins to pull the dangling ends of the rope to release the knots. As soon as they are gone Sherlock curls into himself, hiding his face in his forearms.

            Failed. He’s failed, he’s a failure yet again, letting John down, in _public,_ no less. He’s supposed to be acting as a Dom here, strong and unflappable, even fighting John back, and instead he’s managed to sink down so far that he’d forgotten what their true purpose was for being here in the first place. He’s disgusted with himself. Ashamed.

            “What happened?” John asks him, softly, oblivious. “Did I hurt you?”

            Sherlock wants to scoff at the concern. John should be _angry_ with him, demanding why Sherlock can’t just grow up and give him what he needs already. He should be grabbing Sherlock by the hair, ordering him to apologise for spoiling John’s good mood and fun for something as ridiculous as _anxiety._ But instead he’s _whispering_ , keeping his voice down as if it were a physical stimulus that could set Sherlock off even further, is reaching out to stroke down the back of Sherlock’s neck—

            Sherlock sits up. The sudden motion must startle John, who rocks back onto his ankles, but Sherlock cannot bring himself to care. He needs to leave, get away, this very instant.

            “Sherlock?” John sounds almost hesitant this time. Sherlock glances around; practically no one is looking in their direction, only a few patrons who are passing by without anything specific on their mind. No one is outright laughing, or hiding a smirk behind a hand. They might as well be invisible.

            “I’m sorry,” Sherlock offers, roughly, and forces himself to his feet. He wobbles dangerously for a moment, hands thrown out to catch himself, but recovers before John manages to join him.

            “Sherlock, wait.”

            The order presses lightly against the backs of Sherlock’s eyes but isn’t strong enough to stop him; he storms ahead out of the bondage area and towards the entrance, uncaring that it’s cold outside and he hasn’t got his coat. He’ll manage.

            He’s just about reached the bar when there’s a gentle touch to his elbow.

            “Trouble in paradise?” a female voice asks.

            Sherlock sighs and half turns around, ready to decline what’s obviously about to become either a botched flirting attempt or a thinly veiled play offer, but as soon as he sets eyes on the woman talking to him, the words die in his throat.

            She is short, barely shoulder-height to him despite the tall heels she’s wearing, and blonde, with a hint of mouse brown peeking out at the roots. Two plain earrings dangle from her lobes, and green eyes twinkle at him from behind the glittering sequins of a hard magenta face mask.

            It’s her.

            “All right, darling?” she asks when Sherlock doesn’t reply right away. “It looks like you weren’t having all that much fun over there,” she nods towards the bondage area, “with him.”

            Sherlock glances back. John hasn’t followed him particularly far, standing only a few feet away from the assistant who had provided them with their rope. He’s watching Sherlock, face creased, but Sherlock can’t see much more detail than that at this distance. He returns his attention to the woman.

            “No,” he says at last. “Not much fun at all. I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

            The woman’s smile widens. “I hadn’t said, handsome. But it’s Eva. You can call me Evie, though.”

            “Evie.” Sherlock rolls the name around in his mouth, then offers her a charming grin. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Sherlock.”

            “Oh.” Evie laughs. “That’s an interesting name. Very unique. Tell me, Sherlock, was that your partner just now, over there, or are you…” she looks him up and down, “shopping around?”

            Her intent is obvious, and despite the fact that Sherlock has been waiting a long time for this moment, he finds he has to swallow before he responds.

            “Partner.” He glances back up at John, who has come no closer but now seems to understand what’s going on. “Though perhaps not for much longer, at this rate.”

            Predictably, Evie’s lips crease in sympathy.

            “Sorry to hear that,” she says. “Want to talk about it over a drink?”

            Sherlock’s heart skitters. _Focus._

            “Only if you’re treating,” he replies, and Evie’s mildly flirtatious look dissolves into pleased laughter.

            “Yes,” she says, “yes I am. So say goodbye to your partner for now, love, and let’s get comfortable.” She brushes past him to lead the way to the bar (even though they’re both subs, Sherlock bristles at the presumption), and Sherlock throws John a significant look before turning to follow.

            His phone vibrates just as they’ve managed sit down.

            _Is it her?_

            No, Sherlock thinks exasperatedly, I’ve just decided to forsake you for the first halfway attractive Domme that crossed my path, of _course_ it’s her. He doesn’t deign to respond and instead replaces the phone in his pocket.

            “Is it him?” Evie asks, a playful twinkle in her eye. “Bit of a clingy one, isn’t he?”

            “You have no idea,” Sherlock replies, idly perusing the drink menu. “Like a bloody submissive half the time.”

            There’s a pause as Evie evaluates his words. “I’m sorry?”

            “Oh, you must know what I mean.” Sherlock turns to look at her, eyes innocently wide. “Following you around, constantly asking what they can do for you, if they’re pleasing you well enough… it’s quite grating, frankly.”

            “Ah.” Evie’s voice has lost a little of its warmth from a minute ago. “Yes, it is, isn’t it.”

            “And it was so much more disappointing,” Sherlock goes on, “since he’d told me when we met that he had been in the military. I thought I’d had a real challenge on my hands, but…” he sighs. “I suppose he was just one of those soldiers that goes in and stays a soldier, d’you know what I mean? Sometimes I wonder if he’s even a real Dom, or if he’s just lying to hold my interest.”

            Evie’s lips have pursed into a thin line and her hand motion when she beckons towards the bartender is a bit more brusque than Sherlock would have anticipated. He’s irritating her. _Excellent._

            “Would you like anything?” she asks him once she’s placed her order. Sherlock frowns as if in thought.

            “Just a water, if you wouldn’t mind. I like a clear head when I’m playing.”

            Evie nods at the bartender, and he leaves them alone once more.

            “Speaking of playing,” Sherlock remarks after a few moments of silence. “What’s a pretty young thing like you doing here with no partner? Unattached? Or does he enjoy you telling him about all your other conquests?”

            Evie’s mouth twists into a grimace. “We… separated,” she says quietly. “It was unavoidable. I’m looking for something new to pass the time.”

            “Ah.” Sherlock opens his mouth to say something else but is interrupted by his phone vibrating once again. Damn it, he doesn’t have time for John right now, can’t he see that?

            “Him again?” Evie asks once she realises, a hint of a smile returning to her face. “He’s persistent, at least. You’ve got to admire that.”

            Admire it? Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. Perhaps, in _some_ situations, to _some_ submissives, John’s behaviour could be considered _admirable._ Right now, however, it is wholly distracting and unhelpful. He’s got almost enough information to go to Lestrade with, to convince him that they’ve found the right Domme, but he needs just one more piece, something to make his argument ironclad.

            He needs to know her scene.

            “Would you object to a bit of playing around?” he asks suddenly, aiming for nonchalance. “It’ll serve him right for being a pushover and a cling, and you look like you could use a pick me up.”

            The bartender returns with their drinks. Evie accepts hers from him graciously, then sips at it. Sherlock waits patiently. At last Evie turns back to him, but her smile this time is not encouraging.

            “Maybe not tonight, handsome,” she tells him. “Boy I had earlier tired me out. What about next week?”

            “Tomorrow,” Sherlock says. He can’t acquiesce, not right away; it’s unDom-like, and besides, it’d make Lestrade and John feel better anyway to get this case over and done with as soon as possible. “He won’t learn his lesson if I wait.”

            “Saturday.”

            “ _Friday_.”

            Evie’s eyes glint behind her mask and she rises from her seat, taking her drink with her.

            “Wednesday, my eager boy,” she says, “and that’s final. I’ve got to have some time to prepare. But just think of it as foreplay; you’ll be that much more excited when the big moment finally comes.” She winks at him and then saunters off, hips swaying as she goes. Sherlock feels a bit sick.

            It’s only then that he realises that his phone is buzzing again, and constantly. John’s calling. With slightly shaking hands he removes his phone and presses the green button.

            “John?”

            “ _Sherlock._ ” John’s voice is firm. “I’ve got our coats, I’m at the front door. Come and find me.” There’s no room in his tone for argument, so Sherlock merely swallows and nods.

            “Yes, John.”

            There’s a quiet click, and Sherlock lowers the phone.

            Now that he’s no longer in-scene and the immediate danger of Eva has passed, he’s slowly becoming aware of a minute trembling in his limbs and the fact that he feels extremely cold. He raises a hand tentatively to touch his face and brushes a finger over the clammy skin wonderingly. Is that why he lost the Dominance battle? Because he looks so obviously impaired?

            But that’s not what’s important right now. He has to get back to John. Sherlock stumbles to his feet, grabbing onto the stool to support himself; he’s dropping, and fast. Can John fix that? He might, but then he’s also most likely angry at Sherlock right now for leaving in the middle of their scene. He might not want to help. Sherlock shudders again at the thought.

            The walk over to John is laborious, not because of any particular weakness of his body or forced limping gait, but due to the tremendous amount of energy it requires to keep his head upright and repress the shivers that keep breaking out all over his body. One or two Doms throw him an inquiring glance as he passes, but Sherlock tries his best to avoid eye contact. Better to have them think that he’s intoxicated than in drop. Better to think that he’s in potential danger until he reaches John and gets outside. Perhaps even then.

            At last he reaches John, and the relief he feels at accomplishing this small feat is enough to weaken his knees. He does his best to hide it by taking another small step forward as he accepts his coat, but John’s eyes narrow in concern and Sherlock knows he’s been caught.

            “Hey, what’s wrong?” John crowds into his space, pressing his hands onto Sherlock’s shoulders. “What happened over there? Did she do something to you?”

            Sherlock shakes his head wordlessly, trying to back away from John’s touch. It’s too much, too heavy, too close. “I’m fine. I’ll tell you about it at home—can we go home, John?”

            “Yeah, of course.” John looks at him, eyes flicking across his face in concern. “Are you sure you’re fine? You look… pale.”

            “I will be,” Sherlock promises. “But I need to get out of here.”

            “Yeah, ‘course,” John says again. He moves to stand by Sherlock’s side and wraps a supporting arm around his waist, leading him carefully towards the door. Sherlock tenses at first, despite the gentle touch, but refrains from pushing John’s arm away; that would not be acceptable behaviour. He watches John’s face closely as they exit the club and set off down the street in search of a cab; the frustration that he’d heard only moments ago over the phone seems to have evaporated—has he really forgotten his anger so quickly? Why? Because Sherlock is dropping? It serves him right for leaving John like he had (although he supposes it wasn’t a total waste, since doing so had also led him to their killer). Perhaps he’s simply waiting until they’re in private to lash out. Will he let Sherlock come out of drop before he yells? Or maybe that will be Sherlock’s punishment, suffering through drop on his own. God, he hopes not. Sherlock shivers yet again and tries not to wince as John shushes him, running a hand soothingly along his flank.

Eventually John manages to hail a taxi, and the two of them slide in out of the cold December air to press together in the close warmth of the back seat. Sherlock hesitates for a moment as John settles, watching for a change in his body language that might suggest danger, but when none seems forthcoming he allows himself to lean in close and breathe in John’s scent, reaching for John’s hand to grip it tightly within his own. He needs the comfort, the security, of his Dom right now, to hell with what’s coming to him later. He needs this.

Neither of them says a word as the cab makes its slow, meandering way back to Baker Street.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, so I'm sorry this chapter was a bit delayed. It's also a bit shorter than I would have liked, but the start of this semester has really been kicking my butt and I've barely had time to do all my homework, let alone write fanfic. I did manage to get this chapter into some semblance of something I'm proud of, so I hope you all enjoy it too.
> 
> The update on Lungs will probably be very delayed, probably until October. I really need to put some more time into my commissioned fic, at the very least to get something off of my plate. I *have* lightly planned the outline of the next chapter and may work on prose as it occurs to me, but it won't be my main focus this upcoming week. I apologize for that.
> 
> Now, onward to the chapter!

            By the time the cab has pulled up outside their block of flats, the shivers have spread to the rest of Sherlock’s body. John’s hand that is not still clenched within Sherlock’s own is slowly rubbing up and down his upper arm, attempting to inspire warmth even though the sleeve of his coat, and occasionally John will turn his head to press his lips into Sherlock’s hair and murmur words that Sherlock can hardly make out through the ringing in his ears.

            Why is John being so _kind?_ It’s comforting, in a way, but every caress is tinged with unease as Sherlock remembers that John is most likely still angry with him for his abrupt ending of their scene at the club. They’ll be alone, soon, too—no fellow clubgoers, passers-by or sympathetic cab drivers to intervene if things go sour. What will John do to him for his disobedience? Hit him? Flog him? Hold him down and force him to go through it all again? Subject him to a Dominance display?Sherlock’s throat constricts around an involuntary whimper, but he holds it back and forces himself to breathe deeply as John shifts around for his wallet.

            “Sorry,” John mutters—he thinks he’s upsetting Sherlock by dislodging him, doesn’t realise that Sherlock’s own thoughts are doing more than enough damage on their own. “We’ll be inside in a minute, Sherlock. You’ll be okay, all right?”

            It’s grating. Sherlock needs it to _stop_ , this constant reassurance that everything will be fine, that everything will be _all right_. It won’t, he’s failed John, why won’t John just _acknowledge_ that and stop this horrid waiting and second-guessing of what’s going to be done to him?

            Sherlock clenches his fists, releases them. Then he opens the door.

            “Wh—” John spins around, startled, but Sherlock has already left the cab and taken out his key to the flat. He needs to get inside, away from John, safe.

            _You’re just digging your hole deeper, pet. You’ll have to come out eventually._

            _STOP._ Sherlock fumbles at the door, desperate to hide, to escape, but his hand is too shaky to insert the key properly. Damn it, why can’t he _do_ this, John will be here any minute, will catch him, he can’t catch him, he _can’t_ , he—

            _Finally_. The key enters the lock, catches, turns and then Sherlock is inside. Safe. Good.

            Except—no, wait, John lives here, too, _stupid_ submissive, and there’s nowhere to hide now where John can’t find him. Sherlock wastes precious seconds dithering at the foot of the stairs; to go hide in Mrs Hudson’s flat? (But surely she’s asleep by now, and how would he explain it to her if she woke?) He could go up to his room, but then John could come in, could wait at the bottom of the stairs until Sherlock surrendered, came out, came down. And then he’d be in even more trouble, for thinking that he could avoid his punishment by doing something as childish as hiding.

            The doorknob turns behind him.

            Sherlock springs forward, muscles already tensed and ready to flee, but he catches himself before he’s gone up more than two steps and clutches the bannister in a white-knuckled grip. He can’t do this. Running, hiding—it’s disrespectful to John, and will only make things worse for himself in the long run. He needs to face John, take his punishment properly and with dignity, and maybe afterwards John will give him aftercare and pull him out of this god-awful drop with its shaking limbs and trembling breath and cold, cold, cold skin.

            “Sherlock.”

            John’s inside. Sherlock breathes in, breathes out, then turns around and retreats back down the few steps so that he’s closer to being on John’s level. It’s not quite good enough—he’s still taller than John this way—but he doesn’t know if he ought to kneel. Maybe John would appreciate it. The alternative is to wait until Sherlock’s knees give out, which is looking like a more and more plausible outcome the longer Sherlock has to stay standing. Sherlock clears his throat and then lowers his head, unable to look John in the eye.

            “I’m sorry, sir.”

            John’s quiet for a moment. “What for?”

            Sherlock presses his lips together. He hates this part, always.

            “I disappointed you,” he says at last. “I ruined our scene at the club and I made you angry, and then I stole comfort I didn’t deserve in the cab. I’m sorry.”

            John doesn’t reply again. Then there’s the soft _swish_ of fabric as he walks forward and Sherlock cannot hold back a flinch. John stops.

            “Sir—”

            “On your knees.” The command is quiet, murmured, but no less powerful for its lack of volume; Sherlock falls, knees thudding heavily against the carpeted wood, and tries, almost unsuccessfully, to resist the urge to tuck in his face. _Give Master a clean shot._ Clenching his eyes shut, he lifts his head and offers his cheek in acceptance. _You deserve this._

            John’s hand makes contact.

            Instead of pain, though, the touch is soft, gentle, and Sherlock cannot help but suck in a tight breath through his nose. John’s hand is light against his face, just the barest pressure of fingertips sliding along Sherlock’s cheek towards his jaw, and Sherlock’s stomach clenches in anticipation. What is John doing?

            “You,” John murmurs, “did not _ruin_ anything.”

            Sherlock’s hands curl into fists on top of his thighs.

            “You were afraid,” John continues quietly. “Something I did or something that happened scared you, and you needed the scene to stop. That’s okay. That’s what your safeword is for.”

            “I didn’t use my safeword,” Sherlock corrects him. “I said stop.”

            “Which also counts,” John says calmly. “No, safeword, stop—all of it works, Sherlock. I want you to feel safe around me, and comfortable with what we’re doing.”

            “But what if I’m _never_ comfortable?” Sherlock demands. He pulls away from John’s hand and looks up defiantly, eyes set and mouth hard. (He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, continuing to defy John even now, but John needs to know what he’s getting himself into, what type of sub he’s found in Sherlock.) “What if every time we scene I use my safeword and I’m never able to give you what you want? What if I’m never able to serve you properly?”

            “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” John says. His face is placid, seemingly undisturbed by Sherlock’s blatant insubordination. “I’d like to think that eventually, someday, you’ll get comfortable enough to open up to me, but even if that never happens, you’re already serving me just fine, Sherlock. I’ve really enjoyed our scenes together so far, and setbacks like these are to be expected. We can work through this together.”

            “Stop _doing_ that!” Sherlock rocks back on his heels, glaring up at John as he spits out the words. “Stop saying that everything’s _fine,_ that it doesn’t matter to you if I never manage to submit to you properly—it has to bother you that despite the fact that you _own_ me now I don’t let you touch me, or hurt me, or _fuck_ me the way you so obviously want to.” His hands are shaking in his lap and sweat is starting to break out across his brow, but he can’t stop himself, can’t slow down his breaths or stop the words from coming.

            “You’re being entirely too lenient, letting me get away with _anything_ just because you’ve got a bleeding heart. I’ve told you that I’ve been abused, but that doesn’t mean you have to—”

            John slaps him.

            Not hard, barely enough to sting, but it manages to get Sherlock’s attention and forces him to meet John’s gaze—still, unbelievably, calm.

            “You have been abused,” John acknowledges. “And that does, believe it or not, impact how I treat you. You’re asking me—or expecting me, at the very least—to treat you like you’re still back with someone who doesn’t give a fuck about your well being. But I _care_ about you, you idiot.”

            Sherlock hangs his head. He can’t deal with this. John—kind, wonderful, _stupid,_ lovely John—doesn’t understand that Sherlock needs to be hurt, doesn’t know how to make this sort of thing better without some type of pain, some type of penance. He needs to be hurt before he can be forgiven.

            John must realise that no response is forthcoming, as he sighs heavily and brushes his hands wearily over his face. Sherlock feels wretched.

            “I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry.” He crawls forward, pressing his head against John’s knee in supplication, once, twice, again and again. He doesn’t know what he can do to make this better—John is sad, disappointed, doesn’t want to hurt him, but what else can Sherlock do? What else can he provide to make John happy with him again?

            “I’m sorry,” he says desperately. “I don’t know what else to do, John. Just tell me what you want me to do, please.”

            “Shh,” John soothes. He bends down, threading his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair, then begins to rub in tiny circles that send a cascade of sparks tingling down Sherlock’s spine. “I just want you to relax, all right? Come on, let’s stand up, and then we can get you upstairs and warm. How does that sound?”

            “Please,” Sherlock murmurs. “Please, John.”

            “All right.” John straightens up, then offers his hands for Sherlock to pull himself up with; that, as well as the climb up the stairs, is laborious, exhausting, and at several points makes Sherlock want to throw himself to the floor and give up out of sheer frustration, but John stays with him the entire time, supporting Sherlock with an arm around his waist and murmuring words of encouragement that somehow spur Sherlock to continue putting one foot in front of the other until, miraculously, they’ve made it to the main floor landing.

            “Just through here,” John tells him. “Take off your coat and sit down on the couch. I’ll get you a blanket and some things from upstairs.”

            “Thank you, John.” The words are weak, barely more than a whisper, and John touches his shoulder briefly in reassurance before turning to mount the steps to go to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock watches him leave, then sets himself to the task of removing his coat.

            The act requires almost more coordination than he’s capable of giving. His fingers are stiff, both from cold and drop exhaustion, and lifting his shoulders underneath the weight of all that fabric is almost more than he’s willing to bear. He manages it, however, because John told him to, and then he dumps his coat onto the floor before crawling over the coffee table and sprawling out, face down, onto the couch cushions.

            He comes to a little while later to the sensation of somebody touching his feet. It’s pleasant. His shoes are gone, and someone is massaging carefully at the arches of his feet through his socks. Sherlock lets out a quiet groan of satisfaction, and then whoever’s doing it stops and leans forward to brush his hair out of his eyes.

            “All right, there?” It’s John. Lovely, lovely John. Sherlock sighs in contentment and burrows into the blanket that’s been laid out around his shoulders and face. There’s a pillow beneath his head, now, and the fabric smells like John. He’s happy. Safe. Warm.

            “I’ll take that as a yes.” There’s a smile in John’s voice as he continues to pet Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock presses up against the touch. “You look much better now than you did before. How are you feeling?”

            “Good,” Sherlock murmurs. It’s the truth; he’s no longer cold, and the shaking of his limbs has long since subsided. He’s well on his way back down to subspace now, and this must please John, as he makes a quiet noise of pride and lowers his hand to probe gently at the back of Sherlock’s neck.

            “Turn over,” John says. “I’ll massage out your back, if you want.”

            Oh, that sounds marvellous. Sherlock lets out a murmuring exhale and slowly manoeuvres himself until he’s lying on his front again, and then John’s hands come down on the fleshy part of his shoulders and Sherlock groans once more.

            “You had me worried, you know,” John chides him quietly after a minute or so of work. “At the club. That wasn’t me being angry, that was me worrying that you’d go off with her somewhere and not tell me what you were doing. You weren’t answering any of my texts.”

            “It’s generally considered bad etiquette to text while talking,” Sherlock mumbles into the pillow. John laughs through his nose.

            “I know. But it was dangerous, what we did tonight, and you weren’t in the best state of mind when you were dealing with her. I thought something might’ve happened to you.”

            “But it didn’t.” Sherlock cranes his neck back to look at John. “I’m used to working on cases while in drop, John. I know my limits.”

            That causes John to grimace. “Honestly, I’m not sure that you do. Here, sit up with me.” He sits back and beckons Sherlock to shift upright, which Sherlock does with a minimum of fuss. The blanket is secured once more around his shoulders, the pillow settled behind his back, and then John shifts to lean against Sherlock, wrapping an arm loosely around his side.

            “The thing is,” John says once they’ve both settled, “ever since we met, you’ve seemed to care an awful lot about what will make me happy. And that’s nice, don’t get me wrong. I do appreciate it.” His rubs his hand lightly along Sherlock’s arm, eliciting a quiet shiver. “But I do… worry, sometimes. Because my job, as your Dom, is to take care of you and do things that please _you._ And I feel like I haven’t been doing a very good job of that so far.”

            “Nonsense,” Sherlock protests immediately. “No, John, you’ve been absolutely wonderful. Much better than I’d been—expecting.”

            John notices his hesitation and rewards him with another soft stroke on his arm.

            “Had you been worried?” he asks. “About contracting with me?”

            Sherlock hesitates. John doesn’t push him, however, merely continues to stroke his thumb slowly up and down the upper part of his arm through the blanket. Something in Sherlock’s throat tightens at the gesture, but he pushes the sensation away.

            “Only in the sense that it had been a long time since I’d written a contract,” he says quietly. “I did trust you, more or less—and still do, despite our… setbacks. Compared to my previous Doms, you’ve more than exceeded expectations.”

            John lets out a quiet huff through his nose. “Not much competition there,” he remarks drily. “But that’s… good to hear, Sherlock. Thank you.” His arm around Sherlock tightens momentarily. “Still, I’d. Like to know how to do better, if you could help me with that.”

            Sherlock presses his lips together. “Help you how?”

            “By telling me what you like,” John says. “I mean, I’ve figured out that you enjoy people petting your hair, and getting massaged, and you like it when I follow you around on your cases. But I…” he hesitates for a moment. “I need to know how you want me to treat you while you’re in subspace. I don’t want to be concerned all the time that I’m going to do something that triggers you, or that I’m neglecting something that you need. I want to take care of you.”

            Sherlock doesn’t reply. Privately, he knows what he _ought_ to say. It’s what Molly would tell him to say if she were here, and what Lestrade would tell him to say if he knew. It’s what _he_ wants to say, if he’s being perfectly honest, but he can’t force himself to take the risk. He’d _know_ , then, one way or the other, and that… he leans further into John’s side, wordlessly seeking his warmth.

            He couldn’t bear it if John were to reject him now. Not over something so trivial. He can live without it. He has to.

            “It’s all right if you don’t come up with anything right now,” John reassures him. “I just want you to think about it, okay? Maybe this weekend, when we re-discuss titles and rules and things, you could tell me?”

            “Yes, John,” Sherlock murmurs dutifully. There are other things he likes besides pet play. He can enumerate those. They’ll be fine.

            “Good.” John strokes Sherlock’s arm again, but this time Sherlock frowns at the touch. John hadn’t sounded particularly relieved just then—more… _resolved_ , if anything, as if he’d just made a decision, or needed to get something off his chest and was gearing himself up to do so. Something in his chest freezes.

            _Is he going to…?_

            “What about Lestrade, anyway?” John asks, a bit loudly. “What are we going to tell him about tonight?”

            God. Sherlock lets out the breath he was holding and tries to relax. He’s being paranoid. John hasn’t gotten any hints—or not many, anyway—about Sherlock being a pet. There’s no reason for him to bring up the possibility. He’s safe. Fine.

            But John does have a point. What with all of the drama since leaving the club, Lestrade had been the absolute last thing on his mind. Sherlock pauses.

            “He’d instructed me to text him in case we went to the club tonight,” Sherlock says slowly. “I’ll tell him that we ran into Evie and that the club is a regular haunt of hers.”

            John looks at him. “Evie?”

            “Her name, obviously.”

            “No, I mean—” John’s lips purse. “That’s just a bit familiar, isn’t it?”

            Sherlock’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Why wouldn’t she have been? We were at a _club_ , John, and she was flirting with me. It doesn’t mean anything.”

            “Of course not,” John agrees, but the tension doesn’t quite leave his face. “Did she want to do anything with you?”

            “Possibly.” Sherlock shrugs. “She approached me first, but then when I suggested a scene she begged off, saying she was too worn out and I should come back another day.”

            “Will you go back?”

            Sherlock frowns at John’s tone. “Why wouldn’t I?”

            “You’ve confirmed that it’s her,” John says. “We know that the police will be able to find her there. There’s nothing left for us to do that they can’t.”

            “I haven’t confirmed anything, John,” Sherlock objects. “I’ve found a woman who looks like her at a club for Dominants, yes, but nowhere in that conversation did we discuss sexual interests or scene preferences. If she doesn’t express an interest in knife play, she can’t be our killer.”

            “But it doesn’t have to be you who finds that out,” John insists. “You’ve got enough suspicions that it’s her, then, to tell Lestrade where and when to find her. They can send in their own agent to deal with her.”

            “But she’s expecting _me_.” Sherlock’s voice rises a little. “Why does it matter to you, anyway? This is what I _do_ , John. I’ve been doing it for years and I haven’t died yet.”

            “ _Yet,_ ” John says darkly, “is not all that reassuring.”

            “Well, what do you want me to do?” Sherlock demands. “Bring you along and ask her if a threesome is acceptable? It’ll throw off her pattern, and then all of the work we’ve done will have been for nothing!”

            John closes his eyes, then inhales and exhales deeply. “I know.” He takes the arm that isn’t currently around Sherlock and rubs his hand heavily across his face. “I know. It’s your job, and I don’t want to—control you. But I also don’t want her to _kill you_ just so you can prove a point.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Look. Let’s… just get to bed, yeah? You can text Lestrade about what you found tomorrow, and we can figure out what we’re doing then.” He shifts to get up from the couch, then pauses. “When did she want you to come back, anyway?”

            Sherlock looks at him. The argument isn’t over, he knows that; John obviously doesn’t want him to go (sentiment, wants to protect his sub from danger, overstepping his bounds as a result) but Sherlock is more than capable of taking care of himself. He’s not some helpless submissive that needs their Dom constantly at their heels to make sure they don’t run into trouble.

            He knows that John means well. He’s made a commitment to Sherlock, and cares about his well-being. That’s more than he can say about most of the other Doms that have flitted in and out of his life so far. But this… catching Evie _matters_ , and if John is going to do anything that gets in the way of Sherlock doing that, then… he can’t have John around.

            “Friday,” he answers at last. “Next Friday.”

            “All right.” John leans forward and presses a kiss against Sherlock’s forehead. “That gives us some time, then. Now let’s get you upstairs and into bed, all right? It’s been a long day for you.”

            “Yes, John.” Sherlock stands and begins to gather up his blanket and pillow, but keeps his face turned away from John, towards the floor.

            _Liar._


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys. I'm really sorry that this update took so long. I've been having a lot of writer's block lately, and I was a bit stuck on where to take this story next. I've been doing a little bit of planning, though, and I'll be doing a lot more throughout this month, so hopefully things will be a bit smoother for the next update.
> 
> This is a bit of an interlude chapter as a result, but don't worry- things will happening soon, I promise!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy. :)

            _How’s it coming along with Mycroft? SH_

            Sherlock leans back against the arm of the couch, tucking the sides of his dressing gown more tightly around himself. John’s already left, off to work with orders for Sherlock to do nothing but relax today.

            Time to take care of some unfinished business, it is, then.

            After almost an entire minute, however, the line of dots that would signify Molly typing a reply do not appear, and Sherlock throws his head back against the cushions in a huff. Well, perhaps Lestrade will be more useful.

            _Visited club last night. Found Evie. SH_ There. That should be intriguing enough to merit a response. Sherlock puts his phone down on his stomach and waits. Sure enough, it’s hardly thirty seconds before it starts ringing. With a sigh, Sherlock answers. “Did you _have_ to call?”

            “What did you do?” Lestrade demands. “Does she know that we’re looking for her?”

            “Oh, give me _some_ credit.” Sherlock rolls over onto his side and pulls his legs up (it’s a bit cold in the flat today). “She thinks that John and I are a couple on the rocks and has offered to scene with me this coming Wednesday. It was a rather productive evening, all told.”

            Lestrade’s quiet for a moment. Thinking? Taking notes? Sherlock can’t hear a pencil. “And you’re _sure_ it’s her?” he asks at last. “Absolutely positive?”

            “I’m fairly certain, yes.” Sherlock twists his upper body so that he’s facing the ceiling. There are some cobwebs in the corners, too high for either Mrs Hudson or John to reach. Perhaps he’ll take care of those later.

            “What’s holding you back?” Lestrade asks. “Normally you’re sure right away.”

            Sherlock shrugs, since there’s no one’s around to see him. “She looks like the photo and fits the profile, more or less, but I didn’t manage to ask her what type of scene she prefers. It’s entirely possible that she could turn out to be an avid fan of flogging, rather than knife or bloodplay, though it’s unlikely.”

            “Did you talk at all about her old partner?”

            “Very briefly.” Sherlock’s phone vibrates and he pulls it away from his ear to check the incoming text. Molly. “Nothing that would be helpful for you.”

            “Try me.”

            Sherlock rolls his eyes. “She called it an ‘unavoidable separation.’ Hardly an incriminating description. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve just gotten a text.”

            “Wait, Sherlock—“

            Sherlock presses the end call button and then flips the phone sideways to look at the message.

            _Your brother has a very loose definition of the word ‘illegal’, but I think we’re getting somewhere. Can I call you?_

            “Oh for God’s sake… fine.” Sherlock types back a quick affirmative, and moments later his phone is vibrating once more. “Yes, Molly?”

            “Sorry, I know you don’t really like calling,” Molly says. “I just thought it’d be a bit easier to tell you than to type it all out. Are you alone?”

            “More or less. Mrs Hudson’s downstairs, but John’s left the flat, since that’s what you mean.”

            Molly makes a quiet tsk noise but otherwise doesn’t scold him, and the corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up in response.

            “So I contacted your brother,” Molly says, “and I told him about you wanting him to mind his own business.”

            “And what did he say?”

            Molly hesitates. “…That he doesn’t think you have enough good judgment to know when something’s gone wrong, so it’s his job to do it for you so you don’t get hurt.”

            “Is that what he actually said, or are you paraphrasing?”

            Slightly unexpectedly, Molly laughs.

            “A little bit of both, to be honest,” she says. “But without all of the sentiment, of course. You two don’t really do that, do you?”

            “No,” Sherlock murmurs. The heating in the flat kicks on and the cobweb in the corner starts to flutter lazily against the plaster. He really ought to take care of that for John before he comes home…

            “All he wants to do is look after you, I think,” Molly goes on, unaware of where Sherlock’s thoughts have gone, “but I also think he doesn’t quite understand that you’re an adult now and you can take care of yourself.”

            “Oh, he knows I’m an adult,” Sherlock replies, stretching his legs out again to press his toes into the opposite arm of the couch. “And he also knows that I’ve got an awful track record of _taking care of myself_ , as you put it. The point is that I want him to forget about all that and let me get on with ruining my life on my own.”

            “Sherlock…” There’s a quiet creaking sound, as if Molly’s just shifted the phone out from between her shoulder and her ear. “I thought you were getting along with John.”

            “I was. Am.” Sherlock sighs.

            “Have you told him?”

            Sherlock doesn’t respond at first. “I… spoke with him.”

            “Did you _explicitly tell him_ that you were interested in pet play?”

            Sherlock squirms. “No, Mis—Molly, sorry.”

            “That’s all right,” Molly says calmly. “What’s less all right is that you still haven’t told him, even though I clearly instructed you to do so.”

            “We talked _about_ pet play,” Sherlock argues. “It came up in conversation and he shared his opinion. He thinks it’s something you do _in the bedroom,_ Molly—of _course_ I wasn’t going to tell him after that.”

            Molly sighs, a sharp burst of static over the phone line.

            “Fine,” she concedes. “I won’t tell you to do it anymore, since you obviously have a problem with it. But I do honestly believe that it would be better for you to _talk_ to John about it, rather than assume.” She pauses. “It might also help your case with Mycroft, you know.”

            “ _Molly_.”

            “I’m done, I promise.” Molly shifts the phone again. “Are you going to be okay today?”

            Sherlock shrugs again. “I expect so. Lestrade seems intent on bothering me, so I might do some work for him to pass the time.”

            “Good. I know you like being busy.” Molly pauses. “I do care about you, you know.”

            Sherlock’s grip tightens around his phone. “I know.”

            “Okay.” More silence. “I’ll let you get to it, then. Call me or text me if you need me.”

            Sherlock hangs up without saying goodbye and then drops his phone to the floor beside the couch. The thud echoes for a moment and then the flat is silent, save for an occasional clatter from downstairs and the steady rumble of traffic outside.

            His body is humming. Tingling. Positively on _fire_ with the desire, the _need_ to do something. Walk. Pace. ~~Crawl~~ —

            With a snarl, Sherlock propels himself up and off of the couch, stalking towards the kitchen with heavy, purposeful steps. _Keep busy._ That, he can certainly do.

 

* * *

 

 

            Several hours later, the door to the flat opens, then shuts.

            Sherlock doesn’t notice, buried as he is up to his elbows in a bucket of soapy water, scrub brush in hand. He keeps the brush submerged for a good four seconds, counting carefully in his head, then lifts it out and presses it against the floor and _scrubs_.

            The sound the bristles make as they scrape against the floor is satisfying, in a visceral sort of way; Sherlock can almost pretend he’s scratching at his own skin like this, cleansing it of dirt and all of these _thoughts_ that won’t be silenced, no matter how much he actually cleans.

            _Kitten_.

            Scrub it out, push it down.

            _Can’t take care of yourself._

More soap. Make it stop.

            _John. Master. Evie. Case. Danger—need it, too much, don’t need subspace, can function fine without it, push it down push it down push it—_

“Sherlock?”

            Sherlock looks up. John.

            “Hey.” John smiles at him, a careful smile. _Fragile._ “You okay?”

            Sherlock doesn’t respond right away. Instead he looks down at the brush in his hand, at his pink and wrinkled fingers; the skin around his nails is peeling. Slowly, it dawns on him that he has not changed out of his pyjamas and dressing gown all day. John is looking at him. “I’m fine.”

            “Okay.” John steps into the kitchen, crouches down by where Sherlock is kneeling. “I see you’ve been busy today.”

            Sherlock says nothing.

            “The flat looks great,” John continues. “I’m very happy with what you’ve done. But are you sure you’re okay? You look a bit… disconnected.”

            “I…” Sherlock trails off. “Molly called.” That bit seems important to explain.

            “Okay. And what did she say?”

            “We…” Sherlock pauses. “We were talking about my brother. And you.”

            John reaches out and touches his shoulder, sliding up and down gently along the silky fabric of Sherlock’s dressing gown. “Good boy. Now what about your brother? Was this about our contract again?”

            Sherlock nods. “He… doesn’t think that I know how to take care of myself. So it’s his job to do it for me. I told her no. Molly.”

            “And you were right to,” John tells him. “Your contract’s only for the two of us to see, no one else.”

            “But—” Sherlock’s face screws up in frustration. “He won’t _listen_. That’s why I’ve been doing— _this._ ” He gestures at the kitchen floor. “John doesn’t like it when I hurt myself, so I’ve been doing this instead. It helps. A little.”

            John’s quiet for a moment. Then his hand shifts to thread through Sherlock’s hair and then he’s leaning in, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s forehead tenderly.

            “You,” he says quietly, “are such an amazing, wonderful boy. I’m so proud that you chose to do something besides hurt yourself. It must have been hard.”

            “I wanted to,” Sherlock admits. “I sort of did.” He holds up his hands. John looks at them, then takes one carefully and turns it over, inspecting the skin.

            “Nothing serious,” he says. “We’ll rinse the soap off of them and then keep them dry. They’ll be back to normal soon. Do they hurt?”

            Sherlock shakes his head. “Not really.”

            “Good.” John tugs lightly on his wrist as he goes to stand up, then pauses. “Can you walk right now?”

            Oh, John. Good, kind John to think of that. Sherlock rocks back to test the balls of his feet; they don’t hurt. Good. “Can walk.”

            “Okay.” John tugs his wrist again, a gentle command, and Sherlock pushes up, dropping the brush as he stands. Together they walk over to the kitchen sink, and then John turns on the cold water, testing it with his hands before he puts Sherlock’s under the flow.

            “I’ve half a mind to talk to your brother myself,” John says as he runs his fingers gently over Sherlock’s skin. “Maybe if he knew how upset it was making you—”

            _No. Danger. Mycroft will tell._ “No, John.” Sherlock pulls back, hunching his shoulders. “I’ll talk to him, I can do it myself.”

            “All right, all right, shh.” John strokes his wrist soothingly. “It was just a suggestion. If you want to deal with your brother yourself, by all means, do it. It’s fine.”

            The kitchen lapses back into silence, and bit by bit Sherlock relaxes into John’s touch. The cold water feels good on his sore hands, and John’s fingers are slow and careful as they wipe the remaining soap off of Sherlock’s skin. They will ache tomorrow; part of him wants to hide his face in shame because he has, however indirectly, disobeyed John. He _has_ hurt himself; whether John will punish him for it or not remains to be seen.

            “All done.” John shuts off the tap and then reaches for a fresh towel to dry Sherlock’s hands with. “Feel any better?”

            “Much, John, thank you.” Sherlock wants to nuzzle his face into the side of John’s neck. He wants to press his nose into the fine hairs at John’s temple and sniff, wants to trace his lips over John’s skin until they’re tingling with the pressure and John reciprocates by putting his hand in Sherlock’s hair and calling him kit—

            _No. Bad._ Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and holds it until the fog begins to clear. _Why_ can he not control himself lately? He’s been able to go long stretches without indulging that side of himself before, so why not now?

            _Needy, foolish kitten. Learn to accept what your Master gives you._

            “Sherlock?” John taps the side of his face and Sherlock looks up to meet John’s eyes, brows creased slightly in concern. “Are you okay? You keep drifting away from me.”

            Sherlock lowers his head, making sure to keep his eyes respectfully on John’s. “I’m sorry, John. There’s no need for you to worry. I’m fine.”

            “You don’t have to apologise.” John tilts his head, stroking his thumb thoughtfully across Sherlock’s cheek. “D’you want to scene tonight? You look like you could use one.”

            Heat floods Sherlock’s cheeks and suddenly he can no longer maintain eye contact.

            “You don’t have to,” he murmurs. “If you’ve got something more important—”

            “I don’t,” John says firmly. “Nothing is more important than you tonight, Sherlock. If you need me, I’ll take care of you, all right?”

            Sherlock closes his eyes as something constricts in his chest. “Yes, John.”

            “Good.” John doesn’t pull away, however, and simply continues to pet Sherlock’s face as if lost in thought. Sherlock wishes he would look away.

            “Are you afraid of scening with me?” John asks quietly after a minute or so has passed. The question sends a bolt of adrenaline down Sherlock’s spine and he jerks his head up to look at John incredulously.

            “Why—”

            “You don’t seem very enthusiastic, is all,” John says. “You’re hiding your face from me and you don’t look like you want to talk. Have I done something?”

            Sherlock shakes his head emphatically. “No, John, of course not. You’ve been… perfect, so far. Truly.”

            For some reason, the words don’t bring a smile to John’s face, and Sherlock’s stomach plummets in a mixture of anxiety and fear.

            “Okay,” John says calmly. “Okay.” He lowers his hand from Sherlock’s cheek, and as it goes, a small bubble of panic begins to rise in Sherlock’s throat. “I think you and I need to talk about something. Sit on the couch with me?”

            Though it’s phrased as a question, Sherlock knows it to be an order. He nods obediently, heart thumping, and then follows as John leads him back out into the sitting room.

            “Sit.” John gestures, rather than points at the couch. Polite of him. Sherlock takes a seat on the edge of one cushion, perched and poised to flee in case it becomes necessary. He knows it’s obvious, what he’s doing, but thankfully John says nothing about it as he walks around the coffee table and settles himself on the other end of the couch.

            For the next minute or so, neither of them speak.

            “I think,” John begins at last, “that perhaps there’s been some sort of miscommunication going on between us. Or at the very least a misunderstanding. Would you agree that that’s true?”

            Sherlock doesn’t respond.

            “Sherlock.” John’s voice hardens, ever so slightly.

            “Miscommunication how, John?” Sherlock asks. His tone is polite, submissive, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the fireplace, rather than on John. If he looks at John, he will crumble, will beg to be Dominated; he can feel the itch crawling just beneath his skin, waiting to break free. He cannot let that happen.

            “Miscommunication as in, I think you’re forgetting—or ignoring—some very important things I told you when we signed our contract,” John tells him gently. “Most importantly, that I _don’t mind_ making scenes for you. I’m your Dom, Sherlock, that’s my _job._ I told you that last night.”

            And that’s more or less true, Sherlock supposes, but not entirely the point. He knows that John that would enjoy Domming him (depending, of course, on which activity they chose); the problem—apart from the possibility that John might begin to consider him needy if Sherlock sought him out every time his body expressed the desire for subspace—is that John’s ability to send Sherlock down is very potent indeed. If Sherlock takes him up on his offer, and then doesn’t do a good enough job at controlling himself, he’ll slip. And then John will _know,_ and he’ll be disgusted, and he’ll leave Sherlock behind, and then he’ll be sent back to Molly and the clock will start ticking once again, counting down the days until he’s set free and on his own and—

            A firm hand comes down on his hair, tightening in the strands for half a second before descending with steady pressure down his back.

            “Sherlock.” John’s voice is stern, commanding. “Don’t get lost on me, now.”

            It’s a great effort to pull himself back from the edge, but somehow Sherlock manages it. “Yes, John. Sorry, John.”

            “Don’t apologise,” John instructs him, voice gentling almost immediately. “Just listen to me and follow directions. Can you do that?”

            “Yes, John. Of course.”

            “Good.” John continues to stroke his back, using long, soothing motions that drag at Sherlock’s eyelids the longer they go on. “All I want you to do right now is breathe. Can you do that for me?”

            He’s already falling, too hard, too fast. Words elude him, turning to smoke as he tries to grab at them; a hum is all that he can manage at first, until he works his way up from the depths to produce a weak, “yes, John,” and falls back down once more.

            John doesn’t seem to mind, however; his hand on Sherlock’s back grows stronger, pressing even more firmly against the muscles, and each motion, up or down, sends shivers down Sherlock’s spine and tingles across his shoulders. He wants to lie down, wants to press himself against John and beg for the touch to go on and on for hours. Would John do that for him? He hopes so.

            “All right,” John murmurs, as if he’s read Sherlock’s mind, “you can lie down now. On my lap, if that’s okay. I want to pet your hair.”

            Oh, that’s quite a bit more than _okay._ Sherlock shuffles himself around so that his legs are tucked up onto the couch, feet beneath a throw pillow, and then rests his head contentedly on John’s warm thigh. The desire to brush his nose against John’s leg overpowers him; he does it once, twice, then catches himself—pushes his forehead against John’s leg and digs his nails into his palms.

            “No, Sherlock,” John says, and the rebuke cuts through Sherlock like a knife. “Don’t hurt yourself.” He takes his hand away from Sherlock’s back, the loss of sensation almost enough to make Sherlock keen, and gently pries his fist open. “Anything you want to do is fine. Don’t be embarrassed about it.”

            Sherlock clenches his eyes shut. He can hear Master’s laughter even now: _What on earth are you doing? That’s not how you kiss. Here, let me show you._

            Shove it out push it down make it _stop._

            “Sherlock,” John says quietly. His hand is still, now, on Sherlock’s back. “You’re safe, it’s all right.”

            Except it’s not all right. Sherlock’s defective, a broken submissive, and John deserves so much better than him. Sherlock curls up into a tighter ball, moving to clasp at one of John’s knees with his free hand.

            “Pet me, John,” he whispers. “Please?”

            John’s voice, when he replies, is just as soft. “Of course.” His hand resumes its meandering trek up and down Sherlock’s side, occasionally changing course to wind through tendrils of his hair or pausing to knead carefully at the skin at the base of his neck, and Sherlock lets out a shuddering exhale, letting his muscles mould into the couch and John as far as they can physically go.

            He may not have long with John—not if he keeps failing to contain this side of himself, not if he can’t manage to fix things with Mycroft and keep their relationship safe from prying eyes, not if he cannot get over this irrational fear and just let John do as he pleases without feeling _guilty_ about it, like any normal Dominant with his submissive—but for now, he will take advantage of the time he does have. John—kind, wonderful, beautiful John—Sherlock breathes in harshly through his nose and presses his face even tighter against John’s leg.

            For now, this will be enough.


End file.
